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POEMS. 



THE POET 



Ain) 



OTHER POEMS 



BY 



ACHSA W. SPRAGUE 



aJOic 



BOSTON: 
WILLIAM WHITE AND CO 

158 WASHINGTON STREET. 

1865. 






/ ^v 

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by 

BETSEY SPRAGUE, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of Massachusetts. 



OKO. C. KAITD & AVEEY, 
BLBOTBOTYPRBS AND PHINXBBS. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The contents of this volume include but a portion 
of the Poems placed in the hands of the compiler for 
publication. There remains material more than suffi- 
ci^t for another volume of the size of the present. 
It has been a task of some difficulty to make a selec- 
tion, where none were found devoid of merit. But the 
reluctance that was felt in excluding much that seemed 
valuable, has been partially overcome by the hope that 
a more complete edition of the poetical writings of 
Miss Sprague will be called for at some future day, 
when the present disturbed condition of the country 
shall be overpast. Meanwhile, it has been the aim of 
the compiler to include in this book enough of poeti- 
cal merit, and variety in the shorter pieces, to make it 
an acceptable offering to the many fi'iends of the la- 
mented author, and to the reading public. 

In justice to the author, it ought to be stated, that 
the long poem, and the greater part of the " Miscella- 
neous Poems " included in this collection, were com- 
posed (together with many others still unpublished) 
but a sliort time previous to her death, and while she 



VI ADVERTISEMENT. 

was convalescing from severe illness. The rapidity 
with which they were then written, or dictated to a 
ready writer, with the sudden relapse and closely fol- 
lowhig death of Miss Sprague, deprived these pieces, 
beyond doubt, of that revision and consequent perfec- 
tion in form, which they would ultimately have re- 
,ceived from her own hand, before being given to the 
public. 

Her poems were written, in general, as relaxations 
from more active duties, or, in periods of imperfect 
health, as a mode of relief for an intense mental ac- 
tivity. A good many short pieces were published in 
various newspftpers, at the time they were first written, 
but she had taken no steps toward publishing any- 
thing in a book form. The present collection, though 
containing imperfections and occasional harshnesses 
which under different circumstances might have been 
avoided, is sent to the world with a confidence that it 
possesses merits, both of thought and expression, tliat 
will well repay a perusal. 

South Reading, Vermont, 

May 1, 1864. • 



CONTENTS 



PAGii;. 

ad\t:rtisement v 



INTRODUCTORY REMARKS. 



THE POET. 

SCENE I 3 

SCENE II '. . 57 

SCENE III 108 

SCENE IV 149 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The People 193 

The Soldier's Shroud 1-G 

Emancipation in the District of Cohxmbia 198 

Tlie American Eagle 200 

vn 



VIII CONTtJNTS. 

Tempter and Tempted 203 

Let the Saints be Glad in Heaven 205 

The Stoic Soul's Defiance 207 

Chant of the Soul 209 

The Eeal Prayer 211 

The Ruined Church. 21.3 

Beautiful Sleep 217 

' Into the Depths of Hades 218 

Shame on the Coward Souls 219 

Endure 221 

Wendell Phillips 222 

The Coming Time 224 

The Trial 225 

They Tell me Thou art Beautiful 226 

Serenade — Good-Night 228 

" Ye have done it unto me " 229 

Bury me under the Greenwood Tree 231 

The Morning Land 232 

Devotion 233 

Waiting at the Gate 234 

The Soul of Song 236 

Take me Home 237 

Who are the Beautiful ? 238 

Hark to the Waves that roll 239 

Mountains 239 



CONTENTS. IX 

EARLY POEMS. 

The Dying Warrior , „ 247 

The "Wanderer's Eeturn 248 

The Days of Old : 251 

Dark Hours 253 

Musings 255 

The Ship 257 

A Voice from France, 1848 259 

Thoughts on Leaving Home 2G1 

The Mourner 262 

Disease 263 

To a Bunch of Violets in my Sick Eoom 266 

They Bid me Nerve my Drooping Soul 267 

Sing to Me 270 

To my Sister on her Eighteenth Birthday 271 

Lament of the Jewish Captives 276 

Address of Henry the Fourth to his Army 277 

To One who Called me Ungrateful •. 278 

Despair 280 

" Suffer, yet be Strong" 281 

Recovery from Sickness 282 

' Only for One" 283 

Lines written in a School-room 285 

Songs from Spirit Land 286 

looming 288 

The Angel's Visit 289 



The unexpected and untimely death of Miss A. W. Sprague, 
in the summer of 1862, brought a pang of sorrow to many hearts. 
And there are many still, scattered up and down through fifteen 
States of the Union, who hold her in loving remembrance, though, 
in the whirlpool of revolution and civil war that has since con- 
vulsed the nation, many a fair reputation has gone down to speedy 
oblivion. During a brief public career she had travelled exten- 
sively, and had everywhere made for herself troops of friends. 
From Maine to Missom-i, from Montreal to Baltimore, there are 
earnest, truth-loving men and women who will not soon forget the 
impression they received, as well from her conversation as her 
public discourses. 

Miss Sprague was chiefly known to the world as a trance 
lecturer under what claimed to be spirit-influence. In this capa- 
city she had for several years been an active laborer. A pioneer 
advocate of the Sphitual Philosophy in New England, she was 
also a devoted friend of every philanthropic and reformatory 
enterprise of the time, ranking with the best of her class, — 
with Emma Hardinge, Cora Hatch, and a few others, — in 
catholicity of spuit, in large views, and earnest, telling speech. 
Although speaking in the interest of a faith generally unpopular, 
and involved in no shght degree in crudities, extravagance, 
and quackery, she was herself neither fool nor fanatic. And 
while the reality of spiritual intercourse, the nearness of the 
angel-world to ours, the certain assurance of unending, ever- 
progressive life beyond the grave, were themes upon which 
she often dwelt, she loved most to forget all party watchwords, 
and, ignoring shallow distinctions of sect or class, push out 
into the broad realms of truth, regarding hearer and theme 

11 



XII INTRODUCTORY. 

alike from the stand point simply of enlightened humanity. In 
this spirit, she did not fail to criticise with severity any attempt or 
tendency she discovered among Spiritualists, to erect the new 
teachings into a dogma or a ritual. She was wont to speak of 
these teachings as a spiritual philosophy, and chose to regard 
them as constituting a new dispensation of religious truth to man. 
A movement now in its infancy, but destined to extend itself far 
and wide till it encompassed the earth. Though an advance 
from all previous revelations, the present was but the dawn of 
the New Era. It was the day of small things, — mediums were 
imperfect, conditions unfavorable. Like the seers of all ages, 
she saw and reported that there are new and fresher gospels 
waiting to be given, whenever mankind shall be fitted to receive 
them. She caught glimpses of that illimitable ocean of truth, 
unfathomable by human thought, but which some bold Columbus 
shall yet disclose to man. 

This does but herald brighter things to come, 
Before whose beauty shall the earth sit dumb. 



And known at last shall be God's great unknown, 
And man, unshamed, shall claim it as his own. 

The Poet, Scene III. 

She taught a perennial inspiration — a stream ever gushing forth 
from the eternal fountain, whether called for or not. It seemed 
a great poverty of manhood in the human race, that it should 
have had no model man for eighteen hundred years. There was 
need of a great religious teacher to do for this age what Jesus 
did for his. And might it not be that we had impaired our 
ability to receive new revelations, by looking too closely and too 
implicitly upon the old ? She said : We find the fresh footsteps 
of Deity always in our path, but such is our traditional timidity 
that we dare not trust the evidence of our senses, and recoo^nize 
them as such, till we go and compare them with the footprints of 
the olden time. But while we are busy thus comparing them the 
great God has himself passed on. 



INTRODUCTORY. XIII 

Her influence as a public speaker was remarkable. Always 
deeply in earnest, elegant and forcible in lier style of speaking, 
equally removed from extravagance on tbe one hand and lame- 
ness on the other, she rose not unfrequently to a chaste and noble 
eloquence. She spoke habitually upon the highest themes, with 
a scope and vigor of thought, and a fertihty of illustration rarely 
equalled. Her speaking was an inspiration. She possessed that 
power of the true orator — of uplifting those she addressed into 
higher regions of thought and feeling. Some of her periods 
were very grand, and will not soon be forgotten by those who 
heard them. Swayed by a pure moral enthusiasm, as she 
advanced with her subject, the hearer was borne along upon the 
tide of a robust and persuasive speech. Her manner, meanwhile, 
partook of the elevation of her thought, and enforced it by appro- 
priate and vigorous action. There was nothmg of rant or theatric 
display, no sacrifice of womanly delicacy ; but a simple yet queenly 
dignity in excellent keeping with the discourse. No studied 
elegance of posture or movement, but a native majesty of pres- 
ence, the natural expression of the body possessed and animate 
with the informing soiil. In Vermont, which was her earliest 
lecturmg field, her hold upon the public mind was very deep. 
Multitudes who never distinctively accepted spiritual intercourse as 
a fact, were wont to listen to her with unaffected delight. Though 
prized most in places where she was best known, yet, wherever 
she went, ishe was sure of overflowing houses. It was common 
to see people at her meetings in the smaller towns, who had come 
eight, ten, or fifteen miles to hear " the preaching woman." 

To the esteem in which she was held for her merits as a lecturer, 
was added, at least in the vicinity of her home, the interest that 
attached to the story of her life. Her ^^outh had been one long 
struggle with poverty and suffering. Remarkable from her 
earliest years for an eager, insatiable thirst after knowledge, the 
circumstances of her family forbade any save the most limited 
gratification to this her rulnig desire. Tliere was a large family of 



XIV INTRODUCTORY. 

children, and the old tragedy of Want and Have was claily enacted 
in the home. Sickness came there, — a frequent guest. Mr. 
Sprague, the father, a man gifted by nature with uncommon 
powers of mind, had long been the victim of an uncontrollable 
appetite for strong drink. x\chsa, -bis six child, was a sprightly 
girl, fond of being much in the open air. Opportunities for 
education were scanty, even for a sparsely-populated country 
district. A common school of some sort held its sessions during 
six months of the year. Thither she went, whenever the domestic 
affaii-s of the family would permit, until she was twelve, 
when she began teaching, first in a family in an adjoining town, 
and the succeeding summer in a common school. Before this, 
and while she was yet a pupil, she had been used by her teachers 
to conduct lower classes in school. From thence till she was 
twenty, she was teaching the larger part of the time when her 
health was sufficient, having taught in all eighteen terms. Mean- 
while, she attended at an academy for a term and a half, which 
completed the small debt she owed to school education. In 
private she had doubtless improved every resource to extend the 
boundaries of her knowledge. There were no circulating libraries 
within reach, and little access to good books ; but she must have 
missed no opportunity during this period, of borrowing from 
individuals whenever practicable. Still, all that could be obtained 
in this way must have come far short of satisfying that hungry 
intellect. Society of persons of superior cultivation there was 
little or none, though the father, in his better hours, felt an honest 
pride in his daughter, and knew how to encourage her aspiring 
and ambitious nature, 

But now there came an experience so dark and sorrowful as to 
•:i ike all her previous life, checkered by clouds as it was, seem 
but pure sunshine in comparison. Over-mastering disease laid 
its heavy hand upon this rare and promising girl. She entered 
upon the terrible discipline of a seven years' sickness — a period 
full of^igony and gloom, but destined to prove in its results of 



INTRODUCTORY. XV 

exceeding import to her futm-e life. Gradual in i* s Rpproiiches as 
the shtides of night flill upon the earth, her disease knew no 
pause till its victim lay helpless before its ravages. It was of 
scrofulous natui'e, and fii'st settled in her joints, rendering them 
almost useless. Medical assistance brought no relief For a 
while the youthful hopes of the sufferer bore up cheerily, and 
through the aid of crutches she continued to teach for a term or 
two. But every resoui'ce faihng, as month after month passed 
on and she grew steadily worse, hope seemed to fade away and 
give place to a settled despair. Not the despair' that trembles i\[ 
tlie ^^ew of death, but the hopelessness of living on, of dragging 
out life in perpetual suffering and helplessness. The " Early 
Poems " printed in this volume, and mostly written dming the 
earUer stages of her sickness, sufficiently portray the state of lier 
feelings at this period, and the load of anguish that weighed down 
her spirit.* Every stanza seems measured by the heavy heart- 
throbs of the writer. Before her sickness her aspii'ing mind had 
doul^tless planned for itself a broad field of future activity and 
usefulness, and it was with difficulty that she could bring herself 
to renounce at once and forever all that young imagination had 
painted in f invest colors. 

But as the darkness deepened to midnight, and tl-e last hope 
went out with the passage of weary years, she prayed wildly for 
death ; — begged' and implored that she might not lopger cumber 
the earth, a burden to her friends and to herself ' ' Speak not 
oi dreaded death," — she afterwards wrote, — "I wooed the 
stern Archer as a friend. And yet he passed me by, and, pass- 
ing, pierced some happy heart that loved to live. I might have 
borne the pain (perhaps I might), but oh, the dreaiy thought of 
living in vain ! Year after year to come and go, and j^-et to leave 
no trace that I had ever been, save added wrinkles on my 
mother's brow ! To live, and yet not live ; to die, and yet not 
die ; to feel the restless thought, the vvish to do, the yearning 
for some active life forever struggling iu my Foid, and_ yet to 



XVI INTRODUCTORY. 

be a captive in my prison-cell ! no power to save, and none to 
roll away the stone from that dark, living tomb, and set me free ! " 
Her spirit panted for action. She could not bear and yet be 
still, but wildly wrestled with her fate in those sad hoiu's. Her 
disease, though painful in all its stages, was of a natm-e that left 
the mind free to range at will and contemplate the activities of 
Jife, which, in ^dew of her enfeebled physical condition, seemed to 
mock her own blighted hopes and crushed aspirations. Cut off 
from all bodily exercise, her mental faculties became preternatu- 
rally active, so that it' was an agony to think, and at the same time 
impossible not to do so. Waves of thought and feeling came and 
went, and swept her soul like ocean tides. As the billows of the 
sea when raised by tempests, rush to the land, and with then* 
long roll beat the shores, so the waves of thought, she said, seem- 
ed to lash the shores of her being, and beat, beat, against the frail 
bark of life till it seemed ready to go to pieces before tfteir ever- 
gi^eatening force. 

But relief came at last to her sufferings, and in a way little ex- 
i:ipcted. In " The Angel's Visit," at the end of this volume, her 
own pen has described the manner of her release, and the aims 
and purposes with which she went forth once more to mingle in 
the active world. This is not the place to enter upon a philosoph- 
ical discussion as to the nature of the occult influence there 
operating, nor would it be profitable, since the subject nmst be 
finally left, as it still exists in the mind of the writer, an unsolved 
enigma. Whatever may have been the agency in her cure, — 
and wonderful it certainly was, — no one who knew her, ever 
imputed dishonesty to her, or intention to deceive. It required 
some severe mental struggles before she was persuaded fully to 
trust the mysterious influence that was more and more clearly 
manifesting itself But in it was her only hope ; and following 
out a course of treatment prescribed by the invisible intelligences, 
she was in six months restored to comparative health. Mean- 
while, It began to be intunated to her by the same influence, that 



INTRODUCTORY. XVII 

there was an important public work waiting for her to do, — a work 
for humanity requhed of her in return for the service she had 
herself received ; that this was the result had in view from the 
beginning. She was put in traming for pubhc speaking, detailed 
instructions being given, and exercises prescribed, such "as it is 
difficult to. suppose could proceed from her own mind. Her 
thoughts were at the same time turned strongly towards religious 
and ethical subjects, and, as her health improved, she was moved 
to wiite frequently upon the same. Gradually it was broken to 
her that she must take the field as a public speaker. At first 
she had a strong repugnance to anything of the kind ; but finally, 
after some sacrifice of feeling, she accjuiesced in whiit many con- 
siderations, and especially gratitude, seemed to demand of her. 
A decision that she never regretted. This was in the spring of 
1854. She gave her first pubhc discourse at South Keading, 
Vermont, on the 16th of July of the same year. From that 
day onward till her death, at Plymouth, Vermont, July Gth, 
1862, her life was fiill of busy work. What that work was 
we need not rehearse here, nor tell the joy she found in her 
new vocation. With a brief allusion to a few of the Icss iamiliar 
aspects of her career as a lectm-er, we will pass to a conclusion of 
these remarks. Those who knew her best, can testify with what 
wilhng earnestness she labored, speaking, much of the time, from 
thi-ee to five or six tunes a week, and traveUing constantly, in 
order to give evening lectm^es in places cut of the way of her reg- 
ular Sunday appointments. There was always a large demand 
upon her services, and she was reluctant to refuse calls so long as 
there was a prospect of doing any good. 

From the beginning of her public life, she had felt an earnest 
de -he to speak to the inmates of the Prisons. Her sympatliies 
were strongly moved in behalf of this class of persons, often 
quite as much the victims of society, as characterized by any spe- 
cial depra^^ty of nature. At Providence and Philadelphia, per- 
mission was obtained at her solicitation, to address the ^)nsoners, 
h 



XVIII INTRODUCTORY, 

and a standing invitation extended to renew her visits at any 
time. At Boston she was less successful in getting access to the- 
Charlestown State Prison, though her efforts were seconded by 
several members of the legislature, then in session. In Philadel- 
phia, she went several times to the penitentiary, for private con« 
fcrence with the females confined there. Sometimes she came 
away quite disheartened from these visits. "It is sad," she 
wrote, " to look upon such an abandoned class of people, sad to 
to see their condition, both of mind and body ; and I sometimes 
wonder Vhy I wish to go among them, when, at best, one can do 
so httle good. But somehow my soul cries out for the pri\dlege 
of doing that little, at the expense of the dark scenes that the lift- 
ing of the cm-tain must reveal to me." Wherever she journeyed, 
she was accustomed to give frequent benefit-lectures, the proceeds 
to be apphed for the rehef of the poor, and for other charitable 
purposes. Many also were the cases of individual destitution in 
cities, that she sought out and helped to relieve. She had her- 
self drank deep of poverty's cup, from earliest childhood, and 
knew well its bitter taste. Meeting once at Troy, N. Y., Laura 
Edmonds, daughter of the judge, giving free sittings for the in- 
vestigation of spiritual manifestations, she is seized with regret that 
she cannot go about the country lecturing in like manner without 
money and without price. " But, ah me ! I am poor," she says. 
" Still, I never have a stated price, but leave it to the means or 
generosity of the people to do by me as they think proper. I 
should like it if I had money, that I might do more good. Yet I 
cannot make Spiritualism a stepping-stone to wealth ; it seems 
like debasing the most beautiful things." 

It is easy to see that her sympathies widened year by year, and 
her mind liberalized as she came into larger contact with the 
world. She was too large-natured to live shut up to the influence 
of a single idea. She wannly interested herself in the cliief re^ 
forms and humanitary movements of the day. Her discom'ses, 
while losing nothing of their former spirit, gi-ew more direct and 



INTRODUCTORY. XIX 

practical in their character, as from a broader observation she 
studied the actual condition of society and its deepest needs. She 
became acrpiaiuted, either personally or througli tlieir writings, 
with many of the leading minds of the age, — with the strong, ear- 
nest soul of Theodore Parker, with the quaint wisdom of Emerson, 
with tii3 impassioned poetry of Mrs. Browning, whose Aurora 
Leigh was long a book of especial significance to her. Her poems, 
written both before and since the outbreak of the rebelhon, attest 
the patriotic interest she always felt in republican ideas. That 
last printed before her death, she inscribed to the Union 'Volun- 
teers, dedicating it, with her deepest gratitude and earnest prayers, 
" to the brave and loyal hearts offering then' Hves at the Shi-ine of 
Liberty."- 

As respects the Poems contained in this volume, little needs be 
said hero. The world will judge of the degree of merit they pos- 
sess. They can never, of course, have that interest for a stranger, 
as for those who knew the author, and saw the excellence of her 
character in public and private. To such, these poems, though 
genuine products of the writer's individuality, are but chance 
bubbles on the stream of a life, deep, pure, earne.^t, and strong. 
Characteristic, and suggestive of mucli, they are but the chip of 
granite from the top of Mount Yv'ashington. And there is reason 
to believe that these are ununportant, as compared wit'h what 
would ha\'e been produced had the author been spared to reach 
the fiill maturity of her powers. Though from an early age she 
had occasionally attempted the WTiting of poetry, she liad but just 
entered upon her career as an author. She was writing exten- 
sively, with no special view to publication, and regarded these 
productions for the most part as experiments and exercises in the 
art of wiiting. They should bo judged, therefore, somewhat as 
the juvenile ofiI)rts of authors are estimated, — not only for what 
they are, but for the better promise they contain. The rapidity 
with which they were composed, is not the least remarkable fea- 
(ure in ihoh" history. " The^oet, 



XX INTRODUCTORY. 

4,600 lines, was finished within three weeks from the time of its 
commencement, and actually required not more than seventy-two 
consecutive hours in being committed to paper. " The Child of 
Destiny," a di-amatic poem of about 3,000 lines, still unpublish- 
ed, was completed in five and a half days from its commencement. 
Such facility in composition, it is thought, is hardly surpassed in . 
the whole history of literary composition. From two to three hun- 
di*ed lines were usually thrown off at an evening's sitting. Some- 
tunes, in a state of high mental exaltation, she would walk the 
room, dictating for an amenuensis to write, whose ready pencil 
not unfrequently found it difficult to keep pace with her rapid 
recitation. ' This extraordinary development of writing, began in 
January, 1862, as she was recovering from a severe illness at 
Oswego, N. Y. Her health continued slowly to improve until 
the first of May following, when she returned to her home in Ver- 
mont, as it proved, to die. Her physical strength was still 
low ; but she continued to write, when engaged with a long poem, 
often at the rate of five hundred lines per day. She seemed 
impelled by an irresistible power to undertake new projects, and 
then to finish what had been begun. On the 10th of June, in a 
letter to a friend, she said that her health was decidedly better, 
that she was getting much engaged in writing, that it rested her, 
and tha^ she enjoyed it as a pastmie. Near the end of the month 
she rode to Rutland and back in a carriage, from which time she 
declined rapidly, until a violent brain fever set in, and, on the 
6th of July, the last earthly change had taken place. 

Her death seems untimely, and many found it hard to acquiesce 
in an event that removed one so young, so active, and so anxious 
to do good, while the world needed her so much. This feeling 
was heightened by the impression that she needlessly overworked 
herself, and did not pmdenlly husband her strength. She used 
up life too rapidly, in violation of physiological law. She knew 
no moderation in work, and did not often take counsel of pni- 
den?e, so long as there was a calj^upon her services. It seems 



INTRODUCTORY. xxi 

scarcely less than madness to attempt such mental lalior as she 
performed during the last months of her hfe, and with physical 
stren2:th so much reduced. Indeed, there is reason to think, 
that from the time of her fii'st sickness, before her mediumship, 
her mental activity had heen excessive, and incompatible with a 
permanently liealthy condition of body. Various causes conspned 
to prolong this tendency, till it was manifest at last as an inflamed 
intellectuahsm. Be "tiais as it may, she died after all, perhaps, ui 
a way that it befitted her to die. To put a restramt upon the 
mobility of the mind's powers, it must be remembered, is precisely 
the tiling that people of her mtensely active temperament find it 
hardest to do. Could such an eager, ambitious soul bear to out- 
live its activity, bear to see its faculties fail one by one, and smk 
into imbecility and second childishness ? Does not the eagle thift 
is wont to mount to the sun on free and joyous wing, beat the 
bars of his prison<-age, when captured, till he dies, spuming life 
on such terms ? So our friend, having once tasted the joy that 
comes of the large, free exercise of our noblest powers, could 
never again content herself with the dull, plodding life that 
suffices for most of us. Or, from a higher plane of thought, 
might she not have answered one who thought to chide her for 
her want of moderation : I am set at my post, like a soldier, for 
a certam duty. Like a true soldier, I will stand at my post. K 
danger and death confront me there, I will meet them as I ought, 
eheeifuUy ; I shall never, never desert, my place, or betray the 
trust. 

She had a lofty ambition, — daring yet pure. In the windows 
. of the picture shops, the reader may some time have seen a print 
illustrating Longfellow's spirited little poem — ' ' Excelsior. ' ' A 
youtli with outspread, banner in his hand, is strugghng up the 
shpj^ery ascent of a huge Alpine mountain. Above hun rise the 
steeps of mighty glaciers, their summits hid in clouds. Dark- 
ness is coming on, — the last rays of the setting sun gild the snowj- 
peaks far, far above. Just beneath, in a little vale, lies a hamlet, 



XXII • INTRODUCTORY. 

and from a cottage by tlie wayside has conie out an old man, 
wliose silver hairs speak of wisdom and experience, who is warn- 
ing the youth not to proceed further, cautioning huu against the 
madness of attempting to scale the mountain. Near to the old 
man stands his daughter, with shining ringlets falling upon her 
neck, who modestly but earnestly adds her entreaties to the sage 
admonitions of the sii-e. But the youth is deaf to both ; and 
standing proudly upon the cliff above them, with one hand he 
displays his banner and its ghttering inscription, and with the 
other points upward to the dizzy heights that rear themselves aloft 
in wild grandeur. No dangers can daunt, no appeals move him. 
No cheerful lio;ht of blazino; hearths can detain him from his self- 
imposed task. In the cold twilight he presses on through a waste 
ot drifting snows. Next morning he is found by the pious monks 
of the hospital upon the mountain-top, "lifeless but beautiful," 
with the cherished banner closely wi-apped about his stiffened 
form. I am strangely reminded of this pietm-e whenever I think 
of our departed Mend, — her indomitable, ever forward-pressing 
spirit, and her early fall. Its significance is, of course, in its 
symbolic meaning. It is the consecration of youthful heroism, — 
a heroism deterred by no obstacle, seduced by no blandishments, 
and intent only upon the execution of a lofty purpose. It is the 
self-immolation of genius at the shrine of a pui-e ambition. 

Somebody has said that it might be well for all po&ts, if nothing 
more were known of then- lives than appears in their poetry. 
This may be true of such as Edgar A. Poe, of whom it was 
especially said, but it is not true of her whose name stands upon 
the title-page of this volume. No one, in extending his knowl- 
edge of her, ever had occasion to lessen his esteem for her as a 
person, or accept a lower estimate of her chamcter. 

I have, not sought to pass an indiscriminate eulogium upon her ; 
but want of space compels me rather to pass over in silence many 
admirable ti-aits. Hence I may not sjieak of her steadfast earnest- 
ness of pm-pose, her tireless industry, her indomitable energy, — 



TNTRODUCTORY. XXIII 

whetner teachino; school on cratches, or risiiio; from a sick-bed to 
fulfil an appomtment to lectm^e ; her ardent love of Nature, that 
opened every $ense to the perception of the beautiful and sublime 
in mountain and lake, in stream and dell, in woods and water- 
fall. She was a true child of natui-e, dhect and smiple in her 
manners, and impatient of the artificiality and formal etiijuette of 
fashionable society. In her public ministrations she was earnest 
yet liberal, zealous but toh^rant. With a large vein of mysticism 
in her composition, she would have the truths of Religion made 
clear to the understanding also. She left a name upon which 
detraction sought in vain to find a blot ; and though much 
admh'ed; she had too much good sense to be' spoiled by flattery. 
Beginning life a victim of poverty, in youth a child of suffering, 
she was lastly, in her adult years, a dispenser of benefits to many 
a gi-ateful mind. The Writer of these pages fii^st made her 
acquaintance when he was a young collegian, full of the conceits of 
knowledge without the reality. Heretofore inclined to despise tlie 
intellectual capacities of the gentler sex, she quite revolutionized 
his estunate of woman. It was a surprise to meet so much 
originality of character, so much mental vigor and independence, 
where one was wont to expect only subserviency to low social 
standai'ds and fashionable follies. She was the noblest woman it 
has been my lot to know, and the impress of her spuit is left too 
deep upon my memory ever to be obliterated. WTiatever changes 
may come, however lov7 I may fall, I can never quite forget that, 
in the unpressibie years of my youth, I knew, and walked for a 
while in the radiance of, a pure and lofty character. And now that 
she has closed her earthly career, and is added to that ever-great- 
enmg host that have passed beyond the dark valley, she is well 
entitled to the hospitality aQd fellowship of those master spuits 
" who have labored to impregnate the minds of men with bold 
and lofty conceptions, who have taught the men of their generation 
to crave after the unseen, to pine after the ideal, and rise above 
the visible world of sense." M. E. O. 



THE POET 



THE POET. 



SCENE I. 

An hour before sunset. A thickly-shaded bower in the forest. Glimpses of 
the ocean through the trees. A Poet sitting in an attitude of dejection, 
with torn fragments of paper containing pencilled snatches of songs 
scattered about. Thinks aloud. 



Poet. 

My burning thought leaps up in rhyme, 
And sets itself to many a chime ; 
Like deep, long-hidden, glowing fires. 
Through all my soul it yearns, aspires, 
And worships at some fairer shrine 
Than here I see, — aye, more divine. 

I cannot bear this thought that burns, 
And ever so intensely turns 
To some strange altar deep within. 
And strives my outer self to win ; 



POEMS. 

It makes me lonely in the crowd, 
O'er all that's fair I see a shroud, 
The things of .life seem poor and vain, 
I have no wish to taste again. 
There's discord in each tone I hear, 
For from the soul's deep-hidden sphere 
There ever comes a voice to me. 
That says, "We call, we call to thee." 
What fills me with such great unrest? 
What aching void is in my breast? 
What clouds of darkness and of night? 
What yearning for a purer light? 
That, sick at heart, I turn away 
Still more and more, day after day. 
From what the world calls bright and fair, 
And feel 'tis vain, — for me no share ; 
From what seems great and good to men, 
To sit me down alone again, 
And listen to the ceaseless din 
Of elements at work within, 
That seem to struggle in their power, 
Each one for victory in its hour; 
And hear the deep and solemn tone 
In some strange temple grave and lone, 
That stands within my inmost soul. 
Whose anthems ever ceaseless roll ; 
And strive to enter at its gate, 



THE POET. 

No more to watch and weary wait, 
And find the beautiful within, 
And cleanse myself from every sin. 

What leaps like lightning through my soul. 

Sudden and swift beyond control, 

As if Jove's hand its bolt had sent, 

Or some half-God a power had lent. 

Or, like Prometheus' stolen fire, 

In pity at my long desire, 

Then dies away, its source unknown. 

And leaves me still more sad and lone : — 

Aye, leaves the weary, wasting pain, . 

That preys till it shall come again ? 

\A -pause 
I would do something worthy life, — 
I'm weary of this fruitless strife, — 
Something that lends a golden ray, 
Like sunset to the parting day. 
Immortal longings in me rise. 
An earnestness that never dies. 
To smite the rock within my soul, 
And make its living waters roll. 
Are there no powers within me deep, 
Half-latent, rising from their sleep, 
'By virtue of their innate strength 
To find an utterance at length ? 



POEMS. 

Consuming fires within me burn, 

Whichever way my soul may turn, 

Still scorching, eating out the heart. 

Till thought becomes a fiery dart 

To pierce my spirit through with pain, 

Until I pray for rest again. 

Fires long pent up within the earth, 

Though cramped, restrained, will yet have birth ; 

Some Etna or Vesuvius wakes. 

Or Earth unto its centre shakes. 

Thought pent within the human mind. 

At last its inborn powers shall find. 

And mightier that so long it's lain 

Bound by a hidden, potent chain. 

It bursts its bands at last with might. 

And springs to meet the morning light. 

Rouse up, soul within my soul ! 

That yearns for some mysterious goal ; 

Hast thou not strength to burst away. 

And feel thy power and hold thy sway ? 

Droop not so sadly every wing ! 

I hear thy plaintive murmuring : 

Speak not so mournfully of light, 

As if 'twere shrouded in the night ; 

But find thy might, and burst forth strong : * 

Thy time has come, thou'st waited long. 



THE POET. 7 

Call up rich powers, thyself to speak, 
And stand erect — no more the weak ; 
Let thy best thought find burning word • 
By which the human soul is stirred. 
Burst forth, soul I why may not song 
And outward speech to thee belong ? 
Why may not some free utterance take 
The place of thy long silence ? Break 
The seal from off the mner shrine, 
And breathe in words its thoughts divine \ 
Burst every chain ! at last be free ! 
Give forth the thoughts that burn in thee ! 
Take some rich harp, its numbers try, 
And sing thyself, or, striving, die ! 

Spirit of Poesy. 

I HAVE heard thy deep prayer, and the answer ih given, 
I will breathe through thy soul like a voice frum the 

heaven ; 
I will tune every string of thy spirit's deep lyre, 
Till it thrills and it speaks of thy soviFs hidden fire ; 
I will pour through its cells such a power and a strength, 
That each thought shall leap up in its armor at length. 
And shall rush forth to mingle in songs of the earth. 
And thrill through the mind where rich thoughts have 

their birth. 



8 POEMS. 

I will whisper to thee with a voice small and still, 
Till each fibre shall tremble, each heart-chord shall 

thrill, 
Till the Spirit of Beauty looks up where she smiled. 
And wraps in her mantle and claims thee her child ; 
And she clothes in sweet music the words as they fall. 
Till they bind with a spell the true spirits of all. 
1 will touch with my wand the god-Genius that sleepy 
Far down in thy spirit, far down in its deeps, 
Till he wakes from his slumbers, leaps up in his power, 
And acknowledges thee thrice baptized in that hour. 
He shall touch thee anew from his altar of flame, 
With the fire of his power and the light of his name, 
Till in strength thou shalt rise, and his spirit and fire 
Shall accomplish for thee all thy heart's long desire. 
I will bathe thee in beauty, I'll bathe thee in love, 
Till thy voice has a tone like the angels above. 
Till thine eye speaks the fire that is burning within, 
A nd it beams and it beckons all others to win ; 
Till thy lips have a purpose, a strength, and a power, 
All the wealth of thy soul over others to shower. 
And thy words strangely thrill through the depths of 

the heart. 
Long after the breath from these lips shall depart. 
I will take up thy soul like a lute, and each string 
With melody soft 'neath my fingers shall ring ; 
I will sweep o'er thy heart like a harp with its chords. 



THE POET. 9 

Till each string has a voice, and each tone breathes in 

words. 
1 will touch the rich keys with my long-practised 

hand ; — 
It shall be like an organ, prophetic and grand ; 
It shall wail as in grief, it shall speak as in joy, 
Be a promise of glory no night can destroy. 
It shall rise into grandeur, or sink into pain, 
Then sweep and reecho, and echo again. 
1 will pour o'er thy soul all my magic divine : 
I have heard thy deep prayer, and my gifts shall be 

thine. 

Poet. 

Whence came that voice, those burning words ? 

They seemed from earth or sky ; 
At times so very far away — 

Again so closely nigh. 

What art thou ? Spirit of the wind ? 

Queen-fairy of this wood ? 
Or Genius of these summer waves ? — 

I'd reach thee if I could. 

Thy voice gave answers to my prayers ; — 
Oh, could desires take word. 



10 POEMS. 

From out my yearning soul would come 
The very tones I heard ! 

And have I thought until my brain, 

Bewildered, weaves this spell, 
And airy fancy plays me false. 

And says, " All shall be well " ? 

Oh, speak again ! if aught beside 

Gave forth that tone of heaven. 
Speak ! give me proof, that gifts like these, 

To me can, will be given ! 

Spirit of Poesy. 

I AM the Spirit of Poesy, 

I am the Soul of Song, 
I have waited and listened to thee, soul. 

Waited and listened so long. 

Deep in thy spirit I've seen the germ — 

Germ of a power divine ; 
I have watched and I've waited its growth, soul, 

Waited to call it to mine. 

Fed by thy tears and thy trials dark. 
Stronger it grew each hour, 



THE POET. 11 

Till the time for the waiting is past, soul, — 
Now thou shalt rise to thy power. 

Far in the deep recesses of mind, 

Into thy spirit I come, 
And my mantle around thee I'll fling, soul, 

Wrap thee, and make it thy home. 

Doubt me no longer ! Thou feelest now 

Strangely within thee rise 
All the powers I have promised to thee, soul. 

Powers that exalt to the skies. 

Rouse to the work that is waiting thee ! 

Trust in the power divine ! 
And the spirit of song thou hast craved, soul, 

Tljine, shall in fulness be thine. 



Poet. 

I CAN no longer doubt, for in my heart 

I feel a newer, richer life-blood start ; 

And all my soul is quivering with delight. 

And glows like some new day just sprung from night. 

My very brain seems quickened with a spell. 

And floods of harmony within me swell. 



12 POEMS. 

As though some pitying angel's hand had rolled 

The stone from sepulchre that held my soul — 

Had troubled all the waves within me deep, 

Ai\(\. waked long-silent voices from their sleep. 

It is as though my heart sang, and each vein 

Caught up the tone and rolled it on again ; 

i\s if each breath to each in rhyme was set, 

And every thought its promised joy had met. 

The .wind is whispering through the forest trees,-— 

They answer, swaying to the passing breeze ; 

The rill that leaps and dances at my feet, 

The music of the whispering winds repeats. 

And every flower, with upturned, trusting eye, 

That gazes toward the deep blue summer sky, 

And every hill and every mountain dell 

Is wrapped and bathed hi this mysterious spell. 

And as I gaze, the sky that hangs above. 

Droops over me with look of tender love, 

As if 'twere mantle of the passing God, 

That trailed toward earth to tell where He has trod. 

Upon the whole with thrilling awe I look : 

At last it stands revealed, — a Living Book 

Unclasped, unsealed for me to read this hour. 

And filled and glowing with intensest power. 

'Tis one grand Poem : in my soul I see 

Line after line unfold and speak to me, 

Rich, full of gems of priceless power and thought ; 



THE POET. 13 

Here is the treasure I so long have sought. 

I've read earth's poets, thought by thought conned o'er, 

Turned page on page of old, mysterious lore ; 

Bright gems I've found on many a brilliant page. 

Of poets, teachers, wiitten in their age ; 

But here I see the Mighty Thinker, here 

Stands out the lesson of a higher sphere, 

A living Poem written by God's hand. 

And worthy of the Artist, solemn, grand. 

And yet so sweet, the heart can dream of Heaven, 

And of the Giver by what he has given. 

I read this Poem ; in its every line 

Great Nature's truths in starry beauty shine ; 

And solemn grandeur never felt before 

Steals through my soul— I worsliip, I adore! 

An hour ago I thought it but the earth, — 

Few joys for me, and they of little worth, — 

But now it spreads, a type of that bright home 

Beyond the misty darkness of the tomb. 

It opens like a scroll to meet my view ; 

I see God's finger writing something new. 

E'en as I gaze, still line on line is given. 

Still pointing nearer to the gate of heaven. 

Why, everything's a song, and sings its soul 

In its true life ; the parts but make the whole. 

And oh, how poor are words ! how more than weak ! 

Beside this work of God I cannot speak. 



14 POEMS. 

This mighty poem, in each different part, 

Strikes home with awe sublime, and fills my heart, 

Until each thought rolls back in its despair. 

And dares not utter its weak idyl there ; 

So small, so slight, beside this word of God, 

I bow in silent worship on the sod. 

A half-hour since I felt such rising power. 

It seem'fed my soul could spring to meet the hour. 

And from its depths should rise one star of thought 

To liglit my little life ; yet, ere I caught 

And held the power, and fashioned to my will. 

To consciousness I woke with sudden thrill ; 

To know mysterious beauty round me spread, — 

This God-like Poem, — and I bow my head, 

A silent worshipper at this great shrine. 

And feel as naught amid this work divine ; 

Hushed into silence by this mighty Word 

That all the depths within me strangely stirred. 

One gleam of sudden and of thriUing light 

Swept o'er my soul amid its darkest night. 

It cleared my vision, Nature's truth to see, 

Unveiled its deep and hidden mystery ; 

It showed my utter nothingness to grasp 

The mighty truths thy Spirit did unclasp. 

It showed me small beside the Grand and Great, 

Until I tremble at the open gate, 

And dare not enter with unhallowed feet 



THE POET. 15 

The temple, where the Artist I may meet, 

Who poured his Spirit into every line, 

And left the impress of a soul divine. 

What am I, God, that I should dare to speak 

My poor, faint words in childish rhyme and weak, 

Beside Thy anthem in its grandest roll. 

Whose words are stars, the universe the whole ? 

I can but prostrate lie in silence deep. 

Hushed, wrapped in awe, and closely round me keep 

Earth's veil material, shading half my eye, 

Lest, seeing more, I with thy greatness die. 

With this one prayer : Father, pity me ! 

I cannot check the wish to be like" Thee ! 

Though crushed and humbled that I notliing stand, 

Beside the work of thy eternal hand, 

Still in this darkest night of my despair 

To see the garb of littleness I bear, 

Yet is there -something deep within me, deep. 

With all my strength I cannot hush to sleep. 

It will keep crying through the weary night. 

It will keep turning toward thy heavenly light, 

It will lift up its forehead from the dust. 

And seek audacious to behold the Just, 

And pass beyond the temple-gate, and know, 

And see the source from wlience this Great could flow ; 

That will not turn away its restless eye. 

But pi-ays to see, if, seeing, it must die ! 



16 POEMS, 

Spirit of Beauty, singing. 

We rejoice 1 we rejoice ! for the River of Life 
Has been poured over thee, with its beauty all rife. 
Thou hast caught but one glimpse of the soul of the sod, 
And thy spirit hath bowed to its Spmt, its God. 
Thou hast seen but one gleam of the Great and the 

Grand, 
But one volume that's writ by the mightiest Hand, 
And thy soul has shrunk back at its greatness subhme, 
And thou fearest to pass to that far purer clime. 
It is well, it is well. Had it waked no new power. 
Thou wouldst stand in thy strength and rejoice in this 

hour ; 
But the light of the Greater has dawned in thy soul. 
And its anthems drown thine in their mightier roll. 
But rejoice, thou dreamer ! for thee there is hope ; 
With the great and the grand shall thy spirit yet cope ; 
For the weakness, the trembling, that comes to tiioe 

now. 
Shall yet stamp with God's signet thy thought-tortured 

brow. 
Thou hast bathed in the fountain^ — 'tis well, it is 

well! 
Thou shalt bathe yet again till a far brighter spell 
Shall be woven around thee, and thou shalt be strong, — 
This the proof that thy soul has not waited too long. 



THE POET. 17 

Genius. 

Lie not so prostrate in the dust 

Because the God is great ! 
Or lose thy faith in inborn powers, 

Or tarry at the gate. 
Thou sayest well ; the power within 

Keeps crying every day, 
To know God's truth, — and even God 

Will not be thrust away. 

Because it is one tiny spark 

Of that Immortal Mind, 
And like its Sire — the mighty God — 

No power can wholly bind. 
Chain down thy thought — it breaks the chain — 

And crush it with strong hand, 
It Sampson-like shall upward leap, 

And burst away its band. 

Shalt thou turn hopeless from thy task, 

At what His hand has done, 
E'en though, with all this mightiness, 

Thy God has just begun ? 
Thou art a creature of his hand, 

And wilt thou call it naught ? 
Thou art a part of His great plan — 

A strength should thus be taught. 

2 



18 POEMS. 

Thou art a Poem in thyself, 

One writing every day ; 
Line after line is every thought, 

Ne'er to be swept away. 
Thou art a part of that great whole — 

The whole, so grand, sublime, 
Without thee would be incomplete — 

One necessary rhyme. 

Then in this thought arise ! be strong ! 

Though now it binds thy sight, 
Soon thou shalt better read thyself 

Within its purer light. 
The very greatness shall awake 

Somewhat more grand in thee, 
Till strong and earnest in thy thought. 

Thou shalt grasp hands — be free. 

No matter, soul, how small a part 

Thou findest here to fill. 
Be up and ready for that work. 

And do it with a will. 
As grand as earth may lie outspread, 

O'er arched by yon blue sky. 
As mighty as the planets pass. 

And fill their place on high ; — 



THE POET. 19 

Yet is thy soul — though small and weak — 

Far greater than them all, 
For it can hear Jehovah speak, 

And list the angels' call. 
And it can reason, think, and will. 

And leave its impress here, 
And do the work the God has done, 

Though in a smaller sphere. 

Man is the one Grand Poem, one, — 

The greatest God has given ; 
Its first low strains are sung on earth, 

'Tis finished but in heaven. 
Then write thyself, thy living soul. 

In strong, deep words of love, 
And cast the Godlike thought o'er earth, 

That thou hast caught above. 

Pour out the fulness of thy soul 

In anthem^s strong and deep, 
And other hearts shall catch them up. 

And aU their sweetness keep. 
'Twill be one voice among the rest. 

A diapason grand. 
To sweep in one eternal tone, 

And echo through the land. 



^0 POEMS. 

Take heart ! Because the God is great, 

It should not make thee weak ; 
Thou art a part of that Great Power, 

TJiy life of his must speak. 
'Tis earnest of what thou shalt be, 

That thou art born of him ; 
Lift up thy forehead from the dust, 

And enter boldly in ! 

Thy smallest thought has something good, — 

It gives the mind a strength 
By which it sends another forth, 

Which shall have power at length. 
Press forward in the search for good, 

Press forward in the race, 
And in God's beauty and his truth 

Thou'lt see him face to face ! 

Poet. 

I WILL look up ; though slight and small 

Beside the God, yet I am all 

His power has fashioned me to stand, — 

I am the work of His great hand. 

As such I must be worthy him, 

Though poor and weak, though faint and dim 

Beside the glory of his power ; 

Yet am I living in this hour 



THE POET. 21 

A tiny spark from that great Sun, 

A life ill littleness begun, 

But still to grow and brighter stand, 

As touched and fashioned by His hand. 

All nature stretches grand and great, 

To meet the sky in royal state ; 

Its varied beauties perfect shine. 

Wrapped in a glory most divine. 

I must be moulded with the rest. 

In my own place as surely blest ; 

And I will stand upon this sod, 

Yet lift my face to find the God. 

I am thy child, Artist grand ! 

One little stanza by thy hand, 

Thine offspring ; I've a claim on Thee, — 

I know thou carest yet for me. 

And Thou wilt give me strength and power, 

And over me thy glory shower. 

If I stand up all pure and free, 

And like a cliild shall ask of Thee. 

\Prays. 

O Father ! guard me with thy power — 

A spark struck from thy sun : — 
Wilt give me strength to do my work. 

Somewhat as thou hast done ? 



22 POEMS. 

Father ! claim and call tlij child, 
And let me hear thy voice ; 

All reverent I ask of Thee, 

Beauty and power — - my choice ! 

1 feel thy great parental Love 

Flow deep through all my soul ; 
I hear the anthem of thy power 
In mighty cadence roll. 

I feel Thy presence round me cast ; 

It binds me with a spell ; 
My soul is closer drawn to thine, — 

Father ! it is well. 

I hear Thy hushed, mysterious tread 
Through sky, and air, and sod ; 

Thy mantle wraps and folds thy child, 
Father and Giver, — God ! 

Angels singing in the distance — Voices drawing nearer. 

Child of earth ! how sweet the music 

Of an asking, waiting soul ! 
To the inner courts of heaven 

Do its richest anthems roll. 

We have watched and waited for thee, — 
Waited tlirough the weary hours : 



THE POET. 23 

Thou hast risen- into beauty ; 
In it thou shalt find thy powers. 

Tliou hast felt the mighty presence 

Of the God, within thy mind ; 
There's the only living fountain, 

Only there great wealth we find. 

It has brought thy soul toward heaven : 

Thou has met us in the skies, 
As we came to meet, to greet thee, 

Came to bless thy waiting eyes. 

Poesy has cast her mantle. 

Beauty bathed thee with her spell. 

Genius lit the fires within thee. 
And thy soul leaps up, — 'tis well ! 

We will shed a richer fragrance ; 

Tones forgotten on the earth, 
Thi^ough thy lips shall come to mortals — 

Springing once again to birth. 

Thou shalt stand like ancient priestess 

In the temples long ago ; 
From thy lips strange words prophetic 

Half unconsciously shall flow. 



24 POEMS. ^ 

Thou slialt be a link uniting 

Worlds that seeemed so far away, 

Thou shalt be like beam of morning, 
Ushering a golden day. 

Keep God's mantle close around thee. 
Lest the world shall stain thy soul, 

And the rich strings lose the beauty 
Of their anthem's deepest roll. 

Stand above sin's dark pollution, 
Keep thy soul all pure and white, 

Clear, transparent, where may enter 
Floods of glory and of light. 

Walk amid the dark and lowly, — 
If it needs be, vice and sin, — 

With the voice that we shall give thee. 
From their haunts, God's souls to win 

But above it, still above it 
Hold thy spirit evermore, — 

In the world, and yet not of it. 
Pointing to a viewless shore. 

Keep thy spirit still majestic. 
As the angels glorious stand, 



THE POET. 25 

And archangel's power shall reach thee, — 
Lead and guide thee by the hand. 

Keep the beauty of thy spirit, 

And we'll pour our wealth o'er thee. 

Till thy presence brings a blessing ; 
In it souls shall spring forth free. 

Thou shalt be thyself a Poem, 

All thy life an anthem grand. 
Rising, swelling, upward sweeping, 

Its last strain in spirit land. 

Child of earth ! we stoop to bless thee, 

Take the power we gladly give ! 
Beauty, genius, strength be with thee, 

Grandly wear them, grandly live ! 

Friends who've left the shores of earth-life, 

Havened on the other side. 
With their living presence guard thee. 

With their tender love shall guide. 

Clasp the hands now stretched to meet thee, 

Till they lead to our blest shore. 
And the angels joy to greet thee. 

Entering at the golden door ! 



26 POEMS. 

Poet. 

My God ! what vision fills my soul ! 
I seem to near my wished-for goal. 
How have I yearned to hear some tone 
Of those I loved and called my own, 
Passed strangely to the other shore, 
Haunting my spirit evermore ! 

And did I hear the angels sing, 
Whose echoes through my spirit ring ? 
And shall I have that promised power ? 
God ! I bless thee for this hour ! 
And all my soul floats out in song, 
I've watched and waited, prayed so long ; 

Yet dared not hope this bliss would come, 
That beings from that Brighter Home 
Would give me power to see and know. 
And thrill my spirit with this glow 
Of living light and fire divine : 
Father, all my soul is thine ! 

Spirit of Poesy. 

Take this harp ! and let thy spirit 
Touch its chords with thrilling strain ; 

Let thy richest thoughts ensphere it. 
Till they answer back again. 



THE POET. 27 

Wait not, thinking, still divining 
What the song that thou shalt sing! 

Pour the wealth thy soul enshrining, 
Trembling oyer every string ! 

Poet. 

The words of song»come floating to my lips, 

Like perfume on the wind ; 
Aye, thought keeps struggling into rhythmic words — 

Long pent within my mind, — 

As though my soul would tremble forth in song, 

In freedom's ecstasy ; 
And lift itself with one great sunward flight, 

And lose itself in Thee. 

Fountain of light, of truth, and perfect love ! 

My soul. leaps forth to try. 
Upon the wings of Song, to reach thy home, 

Or in its efibrts die ! 

{Im'provises. 

I spurn my prison-house of earth, — 

The body where I've lain 
Like captive in his cold, damp cell. 

Thrice-bound with heavy chain. 



28 P0E3IS. 

The grated bars that hid my view, 
And shut me dark within, 

The massive door, the heavy bolt, 
Shall never bind again. 

One breath of freedom and of strength 

Has never come to me ; 
But now a hand has loo^d the bars. 

And I will step forth free. 
I gaze Upon truth's sunny sky, 

I list the song of love. 
And Beauty with her starry eyes 

Bends o'er me from above. 

And oh ! within myself I feel 

A burning power to know. 
Beyond the prison-gates to pass. 

Let watch and warder go ; 
And leave behind me every power 

Tliat dared my soul to bind, 
And follow after my desire 

That's fleeter than the wind, — 

Beyond the earth, beyond the glow 
Of sunshine on the stream. 

Beyond the visions of my youth. 
Beyond each fairy dream ; 



THE POET 29 

And never tire and never wait, 

Until the thirst within, 
Is slaked at some bright fountain far 

From earth's tumultuous din. 

Oh, how like falcon from his gyves. 

On hunter's hand set free. 
My lightning thought takes sudd'en flight, 

And whistles back for me ! 
Speed on, speed on, eagle-eyed, 

And find the gates of heaven ! 
Speed on ! and never leave that gate, 

Till God's rich truths are given. 

Cling closely when the angels pass. 

Till they shall take thee in. 
And wash thy garments pure and white. 

To stain no more with sin ! 
On, on ! like deer that hears the sound 

Of hunters on his track ; 
And if thou findest thy true home. 

No power shall send thee back ! 

{The harp falls from her hands, ivhile her eager face, up- 
turned eyes, her outstretched arms and whole attitude 
reveal the soul fast ready to leap its harriers and follow 
the song. 



30 " POEMS. 

Genius. 

Call back thy thoughts, nor let them burst away 
In such delight toward regions of bright day ! 
'Tis well to form thy soul's deep wealth in song, 
But not alone to airy flights belong 
The Poet's gifts 1 'Tis beautiful to feel 
The founliain leap within the soul, — its seal 
All broken, — while the living waters free 
Toss out their spray toward eternity. 
There's such a rush and tide of burning thought, 
As if an angel's fire the soul had caught ; 
There's such a luxury in the rising power, 
I marvel not it bears thee in this hour. 
Like some white bark amid the tossing night. 
On through the breakers, toward the beacon light. 
Yet not for that alone we give thee power. 
But for still greater use has come this dower. 
The Poet's mission is to deeply think : 
NFot always should he rise, but he must sink 
His soul unto the level of each thought ; — 
From every phase of life his power is caught. 
Like Franklin, he may fly his kite toward heaven, 
And catch the lightning when the clouds are riven ; 
But yet, like Fulton, he must bring this power 
To each day's use, fit for each passing hour; 
. And then, like Morse, must send it on its track. 
Till thought to thought in souls shall answer back. 



THE POET. 31 

The poet has been called a dreamer vain, 

Who idly sings his still more idle strain, 

To please the ear and fancy's careless eye, 

To catch imagination passing by ; 

A thing of beauty, like the summer flower, — 

To live, to bloom, to perish in an hour. 

But 'tis not so. The Poet of the soul. 

Whose thrilling tones in strange, deep music roll, 

Who sends the lightnmg of his thought to men. 

Shall bring a burning answer back again. 

The world's true Poet teaches common things, 
And makes a living power of what he sings ; 
Catches the Real for his corner-stone. 
And builds his pyramid ^ with power unknown. 
Of real life, of real burning tears, 
Of real soul-deep grief, and real fears. 
Of heroes living in the present day. 
As well as heroes, martyrs, passed away , 
Of true devotion in the lowly heart ; — 
And every passion still must bear its part ; — 
Of love requited, and of love misplaced. 
That leaves a mark no outward eye has traced. 
Trne moral worth must be the crowning head, 
True spiritual beauty the bright halo shed ; 
The soul's ideal stand the arch above — 
The rainbow, bending o'er it all in love. 



32 POEMS. 

Mingling the whole ; the base (the granite rock 
Of real strength and power to bear the shock) 
Of common facts and common thoughts of men, — 
The heart's deep passions glowing out again ; 
The soul's Ideal looming in the skies, 
Toward which man turns his weary, aching eyes, 
Until it grows the real of his life, 
And smoothes his path, and hushes all his strife. 
It is the Poet's mission to descend, 
And all the influence of his spirit lend 
To those who still pursue the beaten way. 
And think of nought beyond the present day ; 
* And scatter flowers, and rainbow tints, and song. 
To mingle with the dull, material throng. 
Until they learn to love, and to aspire. 
And reach for beauty, till it draws them higher. 

The Poet is the prophet, if he's true ; 

He grasps the past, and points unto the new ; 

He links the ages, like the angel's hand, 

Who stands, '' one foot on sea and one on land " ; 

Sings of what is, and then of what must be. 

When man from all that's gross arises free ; 

Points with an eye of hope and hand of power 

Unto a brighter, better, coming hour ; 

With heart of fire and tongue of living flame, 

Withers the thought that ever stoops to shame, 



THE POET. 33 

And makes each soul its own true birthright see, 

And rise from what it is, more pure to be. 

The Poet is the priest, to walk the sod, 

And stand the type, the image of the God : 

In noble word, in noble deed sublime 

To live, and send his power to future time ; 

To speak such words as seize upon the heart. 

And, half unconsciously, a nobler part 

Help it perform ; and thrill the listening mind 

Until no chain that spirit's strength can bind. 

Until each latent power shall upward leap 

From out its long, mysterious, dreamless sleep, 

Quick-started into life by sudden thrill, 

And nevermore to sleep, but to fulfil 

Its higher work, its destiny on earth, — 

To make still other souls of purer worth. 

Else is he no true Poet ; though he sings. 

And airy fancy round him closely clings. 

And rainbow mantles wrap him in their light, 

And morning's glories gather fair and bright ; 

He's but a mid-day meteor in the sky, — 

An hour shall pass and all his light shall die. 

But he that burns and beams with steady blaze, 

Like some fair planet in its heavenly rays, — 

Mild but intense, that lights the l^lue of heaven, 

And has eternal life unto it given, — 

'Tis he that lights the wandering, darkened race, 



34 POEMS. 

And sees God's beauties ever face to face. 

He's the true Poet, who shall daily bring 

To man this rich and soul-deep offering ; — 

The knowledge of himself, his inborn power, 

The use, the beauty of each present hour. 

The hidden meaning of great Nature's laws, 

The cure of sin, as well as show its cause. 

He is the Teacher who shall point man's way 

Unto a brighter and a better day. 

With winning words of beauty and of love, 

Calling his soul for evermore above ; 

Still making purer with each thought he speaks, 

Still urging higher as he onward seeks, 

Refining still each thought, until his soul 

Shall rise where it can grasp and see the whole ; 

Making the common mind press forward still. 

Until with grander thoughts each chord shall thrill. 

And power shall wake to lead him toward the skies. 

And he becomes the strong, the .good, the wise. 

The Poet is the Thinker ; he must trace 

Through nature up to see the Father's face. 

It is no light, no common thing to wear 
The mantle of true Poesy, and share 
The brightness of her triple crown of light, — 
Power, Purity, and Beauty, — these her might. 
It is a solemn thing to reach thy hand 



THE POET. 35 

To grasp her treasure, and to seek to stand 
Upon the hallowed ground where mingles three 
Such potent spells ; — now must thou worthy he. 
Be but the real poet ! be the true ! 
While bright around thy path our gifts we strew ; 
Or let thy harp forever mouldering lie, 
Never again its thrilling strings to try. 
Attempt the best ! Though failing in thy part, 
Still thou shalt reach some sorrow-stricken heart. 
Attempt the high, the pure, the true, the great, 
Though at the portals long thy soul must wait ! 
Catch rich, grand thoughts from fountains pure 

above. 
Then pour them out with thine own thoughts in love ! 
Mark every place with flowers where thou hast trod, 
And let thy path lead always toward thy God ! 
Then, though thy strains are faint, and low, and 

weak, 
Something of beauty must within them speak ; 
Something of greatness, truth, within them shine. 
Sooner or late to tell their source divine ! 
Ah, let thy harp ring forth with burning song. 
Until it shames from every heart the wrong; 
And bid its richest music thrill the soul. 
Till, echoing back, responsive notes shall roll ! 
Thou singest not to soar beyond the skies. 
But 'tis to hush poor Sorrow's wailing sighs ; 



36 POEMS. 

Aye, not to pass beyond the gate of heaven, 
But that some light to others may be given. 
Thou singest not to burst from earth all free. 
But to teach others how to sing like thee ; 
And sweeter, better, stronger than thine own, 
To pour o'er other hearts their thrilling tone. 
This thy reward, — not perfect freedom given, — 
To know thou leadest others nearer Heaven ! 

Poet. 

I WILL be strong. These words of truth I'll keep 
Treasured within my spirit's chambers deep. 
And I will only turn my watching eyes. 
And send my thoughts afar beyond the skies. 
To catch rich treasures from the bright above, 
To pour o'er others, in their earnest love. 
I'll only pass into the realms of Light, 
To make more clear my own imperfect sight. 
And catch the truths of heaven, the thoughts that 

burn. 
For which I know each soul like mine must yearn. 
These will I mingle with the things of life, 
To cast a halo o'er its pain and strife, 
And give a Beauty to the tasks of men, 
Until the weary- shall take heart again. 
I'll be content, though never strong and great 
As I have wished, though lingering at the gate^ 



THE POET. 37 

111 think my own best thought and give it word. 

Content if but some hearts are strangely stirred, 

And feel new powers awake their depths within, 

That rise and work, and stand above all sin. 

I'll be the Worker, not the dreamer here ; 

Or only dre^-m of some far brighter sphere, 

Because I know that dream is good and true, 

And real, though to others strange and new. 

Ill cherish still ideals great and grand. 

Before me like the pyramids to stand ; 

So shall they lure and beckon me still higher, 

And they shall call from far, and say, "Aspire I " 

For though ideals in the present day, 

They shall be reals yet, and bear the sway. 

I'll dream, and work, and think, all as In one, 

Then, only then, my mission is begun. — 

Oh, all ye Powers that strengthen and make bright, 

Do ye assist me from this wond'rous night 1 

Angels that live where mortals havo not trod ! 

Helper of all ! my hfe's great giver — God ! 

Fairies of the Greenwood. 

We have heard thy prayer. 
And we bring the fair 

From flowery cup and bell ; 
And the greenwood tree, 
From its leaves to thee, 

Shall whisper a fairy spell. 



38 POEMS. 

The mosses so green 
In their silver sheen, 

Shall si3nd thee the spirit of rest ; 
And the violet's eye, 
As it looks to the sky, 

Shall speak to thy soul of the blest. 

And the Druid oak 
Hath its oracle spoke. 

It beareth a strength to thee ; 
For its stalwart limb, 
And its trunk so grim, 
* Are the symbols of the free ; — 

Whfle the clinging vine, 
That will always twine, 

As it climbs to reach the sky, 
Closely round its form, 
Through the sun or storm. 

And with it would gladly die, — 

Is a type of the Love 
That shall rise above 

All selfishness here below ; 
Unasked it is given, — 
Like a breeze out of heaven, 

Uncaring, unthinking, will flow. 



THE POET. 39 

The sunshine and shade 
Through the forest laid, 

On its carpet of green so bright, 
Is the type of this life. 
Of its bliss and its strife, 

Grief's darkness, and joy's pure light. 

And the wind that sweeps 
Through the forest deeps. 

Till the green leaves tremble within, 
Is the type of pure thought 
That is poured unsought. 

And saves and cleanses from sin. 

And the anthem grand, 
When the mighty hand 

Of the tempest is on the oak, 
Is the voice of Him — 
When the day was dim — 

That " Light" for Creation spoke. 

Oh, under the tree 
There is wealth for thee ! 

Far in the dim wood-shade, 
Where no foot has trod. 
Are the truths of God — 

We will show thee where they're laid. 



40 POEMS. 

Then come to our nooks ! 
They are living books, 

Where the soul may gaze and read ; 
And treasure it well, 
There's a hidden spell 

To hearts that will take good heed. 

And seek us for aye ! 
Through the summer day. 

Thou shalt often hear our tone ; 
We'll reveal to thee, 
'Neath the greenwood tree. 

Our truths until then unknown. 

Kind Nature shall teach 
What no lips can preach, — 

Shall teach on her own green sod, 
Thrilling truths to man, 
Of the laws and plan 

Of her own — Great Nature's God ! . 

Then come where we dwell ! 
We will weave a spell 

That shall burn through the songs you sing; 
Keep close to the sod, 
Yet looking to God, 

And our mantle around thee shall cling ! 



THE POET. 41 

Naiads of the Fountain. 



We will throw the spray from our laughing rills, 
As they leap and dance from the summer hills. 
There shall be a song in the brooklet's flow, 
If thine ear is close, it will let thee know ; 
Aye, sometliing of beauty, whispering still, 
That the heart of youth and of age shall tlmll. 



II. 

In the mountain spring there shall be a thought. 

That in vain, perhaps, through the years you Ve sought. 

From the brook that flows to the river grand, 

We will sometimes lift it — our magic wand, — 

And a beauty send to thy spirit's deep, 

That shall wake some thought from its midnight sleep. 

III. 

Thou shalt hear us best when thou art alone ; — 
Though unseen by others, to thee well known. 
In the little lakes, in the mountain dell, 
There shall lie all mirrored our magic shell ; 
Thou hast but to look, and our best truths see. 
And the things of God be made known to thee. 



42 POEMS, 

IV. 

Thou must never think that the waters lie, 
With no truth to speak in their murmured sigh. 
There are spells of beauty on every sod, 
There are fruits that speak of the maker, God ; 
But the founts are clear, and they show a trace 
In their clear, bright depths of His very face. 



V. 

By the rill's pure bed let thy coming feet, 
All the sprites that live in their depths oft greet. 
By the mountain spring let thy steps still stray. 
And be wandering oft to earth's founts away ; 
And a charm shall come to thy voice and word. 
That has never before from thy lips been heard. 

VI. 

In their mirrors bright thou shalt see thy face, 
And shall learn to add still a newer grace. 
In the pure, rich thought that shall come to thee, 
111 the light that makes all thy spirit free. 
Thou shalt learn to weep nevermore, nor pine. 
For our founts shall leap, and the spray be thine ! 



THE POET. 43 

Spirits of the Air. 

Yes, we hasten to answer thee, hasten to come 
From our palace of splendor, the sun-lighted dome ! 
We have treasures of beauty, so bright and so lair, 
Oh, we would that more mortals were willing to share! 
We have brought the sun's rays — they shall make 

thee a pen 
That shall tip as with fire all thy words unto men ; 
And we'll bring thee for paper, on whicli thou slialt 

write 
All thy songs of pure joy, and thy visions of niglit, 
E'en the clouds in our heaven, in their liglits and tlieir 

shade. 
With the gleams of pale Bunshine that over thjm strayed. 
When thou writest of sin, we will bring thee the cloud 
That is dark with the tempest, — the storm's blackened 

shroud ; 
When thou writest of joy, we will give thee the gold- 
Tinted clouds, with a sunbeam in every fold. 
When thou singest of hope, " silver linings" we'll bring, 
Till far brighter and sweeter the songs thou shalt sing. 
When thou speakest of woe, and of carnage and blood, 
We will bring thee the clouds where the sun has just 

stood, 
Gleaming gorgeous with crimson, — the hour ere he 

set, — 



44 * POEMS. 

Where it seems in his passing some dark foe he met, 
Till they grappled in frenzied and deadly embrace, 
And this deluge of blood had enveloped his face. 
And he lay on his bier in his gorgeous array, 
With his clouds that trailed crimson while passing 

away. 
We will bring thee the blue from the deep, summer 

sky, 
On thy breast as an aegis protecting to lie ; 
We will bring thee the winds that sweep strong through 

the heaven, 
With the hurricane's voice, as in thunder 'tis given ; 
And the whirlwinds that pass in their storm-bannered 

car, * 

For a moment so near us, then travelling far. 
And all these thou shalt have when strong powers thou 

wouldst wake. 
When the tyrant should tremble and shivering quake, 
When the patriot's harp should leap up with one gush 
Of true love for his country, then onward would rush, 
Like the hurricane's sweep, till he falls on his foe, 
Like the whirlwind, to scatter, like that to bring woe. 
We will send a sweet breeze when thou speakest of love, 
That will woo and will beckon the spirit above. 
We will give thee soft zephyrs to breathe with a sigh, 
Of the captive's damp cell and the tear-stricken eye, 
We will send thee the winds of the autumn to wail, 



THE POET. 45 

Aye, the moaning, the sighing, the murmuring gale. 
When He cold the brave forms on the far battle-plain, 
And the orphans and widows weep wild o'er the slain. 
But if thus they have died in defence of the Right, 
Not sad dirges alone, not the shadows of night, 
^Yill we bring thee to shed where their silent forms 

are, 
But the glory and light of our own morning star. 
In the hour thou wouldst write of a soul that has 

sprung 
From some error or stain that around it has clung, 
Or some mind that was tempted almost to its fall, 
Yet arose in its strength still triumphant o'er all ; 
Of great deeds in their splendor, of good they have 

brought, 
Of the light and the glory the strong mind has caught, 
Of a nation that wrestled with sin and with wrong. 
That arose from the conflict, triumphant and strong, 
We will send the grand anthems that sweep through 

the sky. 
Eternal, unceasing, that never can die. 
And when thou wouldst speak of the soul that has past 
Through the portals of death, and its dark mantle cast. 
Yet immortal shall live on some far brighter shore. 
To rejoice in pure bliss, evermore, evermore, 
We will bear the bright rainbow to glow through thy 

speech. 



46 POEMS. 

With the power of its beauty life's promise to teach ; 
For its grand arch triumphal shall rise o'er it all, 
And disperse the dark clouds that hang round like a 

pall. 
We will snatch the bright stars from their place in the 

heaven, 
All their brightness and truth to the world shall be 

given ; 
And the lights streaming up through the north in their 

fire. 
We will send thee, to teach every soul to aspire, 
Till they quiver and burn through thy songs as the 

sky, 
And they bear on their wings everj^spirit on high. 
We will pour out our gifts. If thou turnest to see 
And know of our glories, we'll give them to thee. 

G-ENii OF THE Ocean. 

We have heard in our depths profound, 
From thy lips a murmuring sound, . 
And we thought it breathed a prayer ; 
And that spirits of the air. 
And the naiads bright and fair, 
Had taken thee to their care. 
And were weaving spells for thee, 
Underneath the greenw'ood tree. 
In the fountains, on the lea, 



THE POET. 47 

•■ 
In the fair blue sky we see,^ 

Till the voice came down, and we 

Have arisen from our deep, 

Wher# our royal court we keep, 

Where the brave young sailors sleep, 

Where the mermaids o'er them weep, 

And the sea-weeds round them creep, — 

Yes, to bring each bidden spell, 

From the caves wherein we dwell, 

And to let our own tones swell. 

With a sound like, — " It is well ! " 

We have brought the pearl from its ocean-bed. 
All its soft, pale light o'er thy words to shed. 
And the shells with delicate rainbow hue, 
For their wondrous tints o'er thy work we'd strew, 
Till they teach the light and the power of God, 
Where the foot of mortal has never trod, * 
Far away, away, from the dark green sod. 

And we've brought the coral shining, 
And the sea-weed ever twining. 
And a thousand nameless things, 
That around our portal clings ; 
Gems and jewels from our caves. 
Spray and foam from out the waves, 
And the treasures of the world, 



48 POEMS. 

m 

Into our deep caverns hurled. 
Ere the light was wide unfurled, 

To bless the earth in love ; 
Just to teach what unseen worth • 

In all unknown deeps has birth, 
Hidden from the outer earth, 

Never brought above, 
Till some kindly hand has lent 
All its energies, and sent 
Some one on this mission bent, 

To find the treasure deep ; 
Some skilful diver of the soul. 
Who dares the waves that round him roll, 
To find each part and learn the whole. 

As treasured store to keep. 

For within the human mind 

Such deep treasures thou wilt find, 

Though the form seems rude ; 
Underneath some frowning mask. 
If thy soul knows how to ask, 

Thou mayst find a good. 

Search the sea of thought forever, 
Be its own tru.e, earnest diver. 
And to earth thou'lt be a giver 
Of rich gems of light. 



THE POET. 49 

Search the deep, mysterious things, 
Cast the mantle back that clings, 
And to earth at last it brings 
Powers that chase the night. 

We are Genii of the Sea, 
We will always answer thee, 

When thou callest for our aid ; 
But search deeply and search well. 
Till thou findst the hidden spell. 

Moving more than we have said. 

Under every ocean wave 
There is still a hidden cave. 

With its pearl and shell ; 
Deep in every human soul 
There are powers that ever roll, 

Each a potent spell. 

Hast thou not heard our waves' great song, 
Their strange, deep voices murmuring long, — 

Hast thou not heard our tone ? 
We're ever singing some wild strain. 
That comes and goes, then comes again. 

To many hearts unknown. 



60 POEMS. 

Oh, list the Ocean's mighty voice ! 
The deepest anthems are its choice, — 

And ever hear them roll ; 
And catch the strain and let it ring, 
Until its own deep song you sing 

Through every listening soul. 

One poem grand is this our strain. 
Repeated o'er and o'er again, 

Yet ever just as new ; 
Catch up the thought, and let it sweep 
Through every listening spirit's deep, 

Until they learn it true. 

There's inspiration in the tone. 

There's knowledge of the great Unknown, 

To fill thy mind with awe ; 
There shalt thou see His mighty power, 
There listen in each passing hour, 

And read his written law. 

In thoughtful hours, come read this page. 
Rewritten through each age on age. 

And learn its living lore ; 
And hear the wild waves dash and beat. 
And strive to firmly plant their feet, 

Upon the treach'rous shore. 



THE POET. 51 

And teach men 'tis not all in vain, 
Not fruitless effort, fruitless pain. 

It keeps its native strength ; 
And through this action, through this strife, 
Calls forth its latent power, its life. 

And grows more pure at length. 

Teach this to man, and let him see 
Such should his life forever be. 

And he should purer grow ; 
And in his efforts and his pain, 
Though seeming fruitless, seeming vain, 

He'll learn God's truth to know. 

Go stand " beside the sea-beat shore, 
And turn its pebbles o'er and o'er, 

And listen to its sigh ; " 
Thine every line shall catch a tone 
That will become thy very own. 

In thy soul's chambers lie, — 

Until that soul is full of spells. 
And pearls and corals and of shells, 

More briglit than of the sea ; 
The shells, the pearls, the gems of thought, 
Tliat long so vainly thou hast sought, 

Shall live all bright in thee. 



52 POEMS. 

Come listen oft, and thou shalt hear 
The voices from the other sphere, 

Where mortal has not trod ; 
And thou shalt write thy burning word, 
Until each human heart is stirred. 

And turns to know of God. 

Goddess op the Soul. 

My home is in the human mind, 

I read its inmost thought, 
And I have heard thy earnest prayer ; — 

I bring thee what is sought. 
The greenwood deep will give thee power, 

The fountains in their play. 
The treasures of the sky enrich, 

Deep caverns far away. 

But still there needs a greater power, 

To speak to soul — to mind, 
And only in its hidden depths. 

That power may any find. 
All Nature helps thee in thy work. 

Go read her open book, 
Thou canst not con its page too much, 

'Twill pay thy earnest look ; 



THE POET. 53 

But search the deepest human soul, 

And know its wants, its need, 
And in its hidden caves of thought 

Its every feeling read. 
'Tis only then that thou canst speak 

Unto the deep within. 
And rouse it to a higher life, 

And save it from its sin. 

'Tis when thy fingers know its chords, 

That thou canst touch it well. 
And weave thy thoughts in gushing song. 

To bind it with a spell. 
'Tis when thy ear can listen deep 

To voices in the soul. 
And hear the dirges weep and wail, 

And mark the anthems roll ; 

And hear the anguished cry for light, 

Amid the darkest hour, 
That thou canst answer to its prayer, 

And touch it in its power. — 
I'll bear to thee from human souls. 

Through telegraphi(>wires 
So fine no mortal eye can see. 

Its wishes, its desires. 



54 POEMS. 

I'll bear the strength of other minds 

To mingle with thine own, 
To swell thy song to wilder force, 

And give it deeper tone. 
I'll snatch the fire in burning hearts, 

And scatter it o'er thine, 
I'll catch the spirit from true souls, 

To make still more divine. 

I'll link thy sou^l with mystic bands 

By strange and unseen law. 
Until a strength, a hidden power. 

From others thou shalt draw. 
And thou wilt give it back again 

In rich and thrilling song, 
In words that still uphold the right. 

And trample down the wrong. 

Thou art to be the people's voice, 

To speak their own best thought. 
For which they could not find the words. 

Though long in vain they sought. 
The People's poet thou shalt be — 

Interpreter of truth. 
Speaking all hopeful unto age, 

Ar.d strengthening unto youth. 



THE POET. 55 

Turn often to thy soul's deep shrine, 

Its sacred fane within, 
And leave far back, aye, very far. 

The world's dark strife and din. 
And worship at this inner shrine. 

And earnest call for me, 
And I will bring my holiest gifts. 

And pour them out to thee ! 

Poet . 

Oh, voice on voice, and Power on Power, 
Seem watchmg, helping me this hour ! 
I am not worthy this to share. 
And oh, how can I think to wear 
The mantles that they cast o'er me, 
And hope to keep unstained and free ! 
Yet, Spirits of the earth and air. 
And ocean wave and fountain fair, 
And Goddess of the human soul, 
That points to my long-wished-foi goal, 
Angels that bend from brighter skies, 
In whose sweet faces, loving eyes, 
I see the friends long passed away 
Unto the bright and golden day. 
Father of Love, who watcheth me. 
Help me to be all worthy Thee ! 



56 POEMS. 

Fairies, Naiads, Spirits, and Genii. 

We help thee, we've tried thee, 
We guard thee, we guide thee, 
No ill shall betide thee". 
For we are beside thee. 
To help evermore ! 

\_Echo, Evermore ! 

Our Spirits shall bless thee. 

Our love shall caress thee, 

Our gifts shall impress thee. 

Still drawing thy spirit 

To yet truer merit, 

The life to inherit, 

Where thy friends shall all meet thee. 

Where the loved ones shall greet thee. 

And where naught shall defeat thee, 

On that blessed shore ; 
Where earth's heavy pain 
That o'er thee has lain, 
Shall come not again 

Nevermore, nevermore \ 

[Echo, Never — more ! 

Fairies, Naiads, etc. 

Nevermore, nevermore ! 

\_Echo, Nev — er — more ! 



SCENE II. 

Evening. A lighted partor. The members of the family, also a lady friend, 
seated at their separate employments. The father throws down the even- 
ing's paper, and turns to his daughter. 



Mr. Seymour. 

What keeps thee, Ida, poring o'er that book ? 

I scarce have caught a single welcome look. 

Had I not found my slippers waiting there, 

All warm and nice beside my easy chair, 

I should have doubted if thou wert at home — 

Come, tell me whatthou'rt reading, daughter, come! 

\_Ske lays down her book, seats herself on his lap, and lays 
her head affectionately upon his shoulders. 

Ah, not too old to be my little pet ! 

I know thou art a woman — yes, and yet 

It hardly seems a day has passed since thou 

Wert but a little babe, a child, and now 

I fear some gay young knight will win thy heart, 

And leave for me not even one small part. 

How is it, — shall I lose my summer flowe'r ? 

It would, indeed, be but a mournful hour. 

\^Pats her cheek, 
57 



58 POEMS. 

Ida, playfully. 

Oh, never fear, I know there could not be 
A man in all the world so kind to me, 
As thou, my father, and I mean to stay 
As long as hearts would miss me if away. 

Mr. Seymour. 

Well, well, no more ; thy mother's half in tears 
I do believe, at just these playful fears. 
But, stay ! thou hast not told me yet what page 
Has held thee bound as silent as a sage. 
I know thou art a book-worm, but to-night 
I almost thought thy mind had taken flight. 

Ida. 

The book indeed is wonderful. Each line 

With strange, rich gems of thought and beauty 

shines. 
I wonder where the poet found the power 
O'er every page such wealth of soul to shower. 
It seems as though the pen was tipped with fire, 
To touch the soul, and teach it to aspire. 
Not lofty, far above the common mind. 
But where each heart its own desire can find 
Rewritten, and its answer strangely given. 
Till led unconsciously on toward its heaven. 
There is an earnestness in each new thought, 



T.HE POET. 59 

Some holy purpose every line has caught ; 

I can not tell the beauties that I see, 

But it has woke new powers and thoughts in me. 

It seems as though I could not sink again 

To common thoughts and common cares and pain. 

If I could keep the spirit of the page, 

There'd come to me at least tlie Golden Age. 

It does not give the author's real name, 

I find no clue to tell ti'om whence it came. 

Its title, " The True Life : "— 'tis given well ! 

And binds me strangely with an unseen spell. 

Mr. Seymour. 

And yet, a book that leads the mind away 
From real life, and cares of every day, 
With airy flights of fancy soaring high, 
That leaves the listener floating in the sky, 
Is not the power to make thee firm and strong 
To meet the cares tliat unto life belong. 
We find it not on any written page ; — 
My daughter, we must make the Golden Age ! 

Ida. 

I did not mean it took my thoughts from earth ; 
It waked within me those of greater worth. 
It made the tasks of life seem like a joy, 
Its cares, its ills, too trifling to aiiiioy : 



60 POEMS, 

And shed a calm and softened light o'er life, 
That strangely swept away its cares and strife. 
I say again, if I could keep the power 
I've caught from that true Poet in this hour, 
The world would be all beauty ; for thq hand 
.Of some great earnest work would ever stand 
Revealed to me, and in my life's true light 
I'd still work on, because it leads to Right. 

Mr. S e ymour. 

Then was it good. I love to hear thy voice 

Speak words like these — it makes my heart rejoice. 

I would not have thee throw thy life away 

In careless ease, and childish, petty play : 

I've prayed, a true and earnest life for thee, — 

To see thee live it, will be heaven to me. 

\_Loses himself in thought. 
I'll read the book — - 1 like an earnest thought. 
There's much that's trash, much better if unbought. 
Hast read this book, Kate Walters ? 

Kate. 

No, not I ! 
For me 'tis much too prosy, and too dry. 
I beg thy daughter's pardon, but I heard 
Her read some parts, yet did not hear a word 
That's in my style. I like Byronic verse, 



THE POET. 61 

Not Pope's nor Cowper's ; — this is even worse, 

Forever bringing down to real life ; — 

I'd rather burst away from all its strife, 

And plunge into some deeply thrilling book, 

Like Byron's "Corsair," or Moore's " Lalla Rookh." 

And then with strange, new notions it is filled. 

Let parsons preach, I say, what God has willed, 

But this points oat to life such lofty use, 

Rather than try to live, I'd beg a truce. 

'Tis my belief that when a person dies, 

'Tis time enough to pass into the skies ; 

That life on earth is given to enjoy 

Wliat good there is, ere it has time to cloy. 

And then I think the heroine takes a stand 

In that position God assigned to man. 

I don't believe in " Woman's Rights ; " such stuiBf 

I dread ; I'm sure that I have rights enough ! 

Mr. Seymour, laughing. 

No one doubts that, as on some future day 
Some luckless wight may have good cause to say ! 

• Kate. 

Well, have-thy joke ! I've my opinion still. 
I have no doubt thy daughter will fulfil 
A higher life than mine, that runs to wa^te ; 
I say, " God speed ! " but I've a different taste. 



62 POEMS. 



Mrs. Seymour. 



Why, Kate, I really thought thou hadst a heart, 
That,when once touched, would see a better part. 
Reared in such luxury, thou canst not know. 
From what or whom thy countless blessings flow ; 
But with thy love of ease and happiness. 
Thou hast not found the greatest charm to bless. 
Joy lies not in the getting, that's not bliss ; 
This is the secret test, — thou'lt find it this : 
Give^ give ^forget thyself^ and always give I " 
Thus find God's blessing, thus in pleasure live. 

Kate. 

It may be ; but I think I'd rather get. 

And, with thy own belief, should I regret. 

I make the giver happier that he 

Finds God's rich blessing when he gives to me ? 

A true philanthropist in my own way ; — 

Who'll dare dispute it, Mr. Seymour, say ? 

Mr. Seymour, (^smiling. ^ 

A ^sophist rather ! but we can't expect 
An heiress, belle, young Clifton's bride elect, 
To look on life with unveiled, earnest eyes, 
Or stop to weep where human suffering lies. 
I well remember in my youthful day — 
I half forget my hair is turning gray — 



THE POET. 63 

How thoughtless unto mirth I gave my heart, 

Until keen anguish pierced it with her dart, 

And woke me sudden to the sense of pain 

In other hearts ; — it never slept again. 

A child of fortune, like thyself, I clung 

To pleasure, till my father's death-knell rung. 

He died insolvent. O'er his honored name 

The cold world hang the blackened pall of shame. 

And called him base. It broke my mother's heart, 

And I was left alone to bear my part, 

With such a sudden sense of life's first pain, 

As when once borne, can never come again. 

I sank at first beneatli the dreadful blow, 

But soon I felt a deeper life-blood flow, 

And all my soul rose up. That point began 

My real life. Grief stamped me first a man. 

I firmly breasted life's impetuous stream ; 

I have succeeded far beyond my dream. 

Wealth, fame and honor, now the world calls mine, 

Two jewels for my heart forever shine ; 

And in the love tliat gathers round my hearth, 

I might forget the misery of earth, 

But for this first great blow ; now my great prayer 

Is that my bliss each human heart may share. 

And if a day has passed, no act of mine 

Has given joy for which the thousands pine, 

I count it lost ; and with me, heart and hands. 



64 POEMS. 

I need not say that Mrs. Seymour stands. 

Thou knowest her well ; the poor know better far ; — 

I need not tell thee what her merits are. 

And this, my daughter, round whose life my heart 

Clings with a love in which' self bears no part, — 

The only pledge of our long, mutual love, — 

More than all else I've striven, far- above 

All thoughtlessness to elevate her mind, 

The loftier beauty in this life to find, 

That women often loses reared in wealth. 

And, blessed with beauty, grace, and joys of health, 

I could not bear to see her spend her youth. 

Careless and vain, coquettish, proud, in truth 

Like thousands whom indulgent parents rear, 

So all unfitted for a woman's sphere, — 

Just pretty women, fit to while away 

Man's leisure hours some quiet summer day ; 

With winning smiles, and doll-like, quiet face, 

And genteel small talk done with artist's grace ; 

With thoughts, opinions, aspirations tame. 

And not one thought of life's true end and aim. 

It pains my heart to see these fragile flowers 

Step forth in life without a woman's powers, 

And yet assume a woman's duties, state, 

And failing, meet a sad and early fate. 

It grieves me much — I speak it as a friend — 

To see one blest as thou, thy best powers spend 



THE POET. 65 

111 what seems so unworthy, trifling, vain ; 

And yet I would not give thy heart a pain. 

But sometimes when I see thee move in light, 

Amid the crowds in pleasure's halls at night, 

And think such bliss is all in all to thee, 

Thou canst not guess the pang that comes to me. 

I loved thy father, and I love his child, — 

Though far too wayward, and albeit too wild, — 

And I can see beyond this brilliant haze. 

To real life, and earnest future days. 

When woman's duties come, sweet, but yet stern, 

And call to thee from thoughtless scenes to turn. 

And lay thy soul's best offering at a shrine 

Where thou must mould still other minds by thine. 

And if unequal to the task that's given. 

How will thy heart with many a pang be riven, 

And joys that seem so full of beauty now. 

Will turn to dust and ashes on thy brow. 

I would not have thee less the glad and gay, 

I love thy leaping sunshine every day. 

The waves of joy that sweep across thy soul ; 

I only wish, beneath their dash and roll 

The germs of earnest purpose hidden slept. 

And nobler, loftier thoughts their vigils kept. 

To leap like Genii from the ocean cave, 

Should storm and tempest come thy bark to save. 

Forgive me, that I've spoken words so plain, 

5 



66 POEMS. 

Perchance sometime they'll come to thee again. 
Who knows ? You smile ; but words unheeded now, 
May echo back in after days, and thou 
Wilt give them audience, with better grace 
Than I expect to win from that young face. 

Kate. 

I feel thy words, their truth and earnest love. 

Thou knowest I have no friends I prize above 

Thyself and thine ; if aught could tame my heart, 

And make it good and great, thou hast the art. 

But, ah, I fear 'tis useless ! I must sip 

The cup of pleasure while 'tis at my lip. 

And let the world go on its beaten way. 

And with the selfish have my little day. 

And should life bring the bitter, brimming cup 

Of sorrow, I will try to drink it up ; 

And when strikes home its keen and piercing dart, 

Perhaps I,too, shall have a better heart. 

Till then I shall not be a saint, I fear. 

Or fill what seems to thee a woman's sphere. 

Mr. Seymour. 

Well, here comes Clifton ! So at once I yield 
The subject, ere I'm driven from the field. 
I have no hope to make a convert now. 
At least, until he's made his parting bow. 



THE POET. 07 

Besides, thou'rt just the woman he admires ; 
He's no ambition thou shouldst have desires 
Beyond the pretty women of the world, — 
To have thy toilet nice, thy ringlets curled. 
With dimpling smiles that make thy face their home. 
But hush ! — " Behold, the Conquering Hero comes ! " 

\_Enter Walter Clifton, a man of wealth and fashion, and 
husband expectant of Miss Kate Walters. 

Ah, Clifton ! Have a seat ! Myself and Kate . 
Have just been holding quite a warm debate. 
Which ends somewhat like this: that woman's grace 
Depends upon a stylish form and face, 
And that her only province is to make 
Herself so fascinating, she can take 
By storm, the heart of every man she meets, — 
Her greatness measured by their sure defeats. 
Dost like the portrait, Clifton ? Does it suit ? 
Give us thy heart's ideal ! I'll be mute. 

Clifton. 

Thou hast not given me time for sober thought. 
But when a man has once been fairly caught. 
He's sure the power by which he met defeat. 
Must be of all the, world the most complete. 
Thine own experience must have taught thee this, 
That to be conquered has sometimes its bliss. 



68 POEMS. 

Mr. Seymour. 

True, I was taken captive years ago, — 
I've had no wish for freedom since, oh, no ! 
But serious now, a truce to every jest : 
How shall a woman fill her true sphere best ? 

Clifton. 

Why nature points the way ! A man is strong 

To battle with the world. To him belong 

The sterner duties. Woman was not made 

For life's rough highways, rather for the shade ; — 

To soothe man's hours when weary with the strife 

That meets at every step his way in life. 

She who best makes her home a place of cheer, 

Fills most and best a woman's higher sphere. 

Mr. Seymour. 

I grant her province there. She moves the Eve 
Of her own Eden. We should sadly grieve, — 
The poor lost Adams of a suffering race, — 
If there we could not see her smiling face. 
That first, and always first. When she assumes 
The duties of a wife, when she presumes 
To rear and mould the soft and plastic mind, 
That with her own high nature is entwined, 
No other duties should take place of these. 
No other pleasures have such power to please ; 



THE POET. 69 

The voice of her true love she should obey, 
And cast the light to make their brightest day. 
Though hard the task sometimes, and steru, that's 

given, 
The mother finds reward enough in Heaven. 
But is that all a woman's hand can do ? 
Must she but this one phase of life pursue ? 
Has she no thoughts and energies like man ? 
Has she not right to do what e'er she can ? 
To use the gifts of mind she finds most strong, 
That lend her power to overcome the wrong ? 
What time her. higher duties do not call. 
What should prevent her doing good in all ? 

Clifton. 

Thou surely dost not mean by such a plan, 
That she should labor side by side with man ? 
Do just the work her fancy points to do. 
Though course and rough, or radical and new ? 

Mr. Seymour. 

I mean these powers to her of right belong ; 
To follow her own impulse deep and strong. 
And choose herself employment ; — take the pen, 
Or brush or scalpel, side by side with men. 
In short, do any work her heart deems good, — 
Her right God-given. Am I understood ? 



70 POEMS. 



Clifton 



Yes, yes, I think I understand thee now 
Quite well enough, and yet thou must allow 
A difference of opinion on this point ; 
I fear thou'dst find things sadly out of joint 
With this, thy plan. To such a motley throng 
No woman of refinement could belong. 
And keep the charm that lies in her pure heart, 
And all the sweetness of her winning art. 
'Twill do perhaps for her to wield the pen, — 
"Blue-stockings," though, are terrors among men;- 
Yet I've no fancy that a wife of mine, 
Among the literary world should shine. 
'Tis apt to spoil the beauty of the home, 
And then the stains of ink so sure to come 
On her fair fingers. Better jewelled rings 
Become white hands than any such foul things. 
And faugh ! to see a pretty woman stand 
With keen, dissecting instruments in hand. 
Dividing lung from lung, and bone from bone, 
A perfect Gorgon, turning one to stone ! 
I must confess, I shudder at such arts, 
Though she's been noted for dissecting hearts. 
Next, in the pulpit thou wouldst have her place, 
Or in a public hall expose her face. 
Be merchant, or mechanic, at her will. 
Perhaps at building ships might try her skill ; 



THE POET. 71 

Li legislative halls should take her seat, 
While men should listen at Gamaliel's feet; 
Nor pause until she'd grasped the reins of fate, 
And ruled supreme, presiding o'er the State ! 

Mr. Seymour. 

I think a woman's own good sense would guide 
Her thoughts and actions, in a field so wide ; 
And being finer in her nature still 
Than we, the finer posts from choice would fill. 
Instead of going down to find her place. 
Would elevate her task, and give it grace. 
Men, termed the civilized, are half like Turks, 
So apt to sink to level of their works ; 
But she perhaps might teach them to be wise. 
To lift their labor up, and with it rise. 
And mingling more with those of low degree. 
Instead of growmg coarse, would make them see 
Her purity of soul, until 'twould shame 
Their baser natures with its silent blame. 
A true-souled woman with a purpose high, 
Who draws her strength from native purity, 
Can walk amid the darkest stains of sin, 
Amid the direful sound of passion's din. 
And winning words to hearts polluted speak. 
Without one breath to stain her spotless cheek. 
The true, the good, in woman never fail. 



72 POEMS. 

Dost doubt ? go look at Florence Nightingale. 

Who does not honor her heroic name ? 

It puts inglorious ease to deepest shame, 

And that false fear that woman's skirts may stain 

Through earnest work where vice and sin has lain. 

Outside her home, a fearless woman then. 

Amid the ranks of coarse and brutal men, 

Shone like a watch-fire through the camp, when 

strife 
Had left the wounded struggling back to life ; 
And smoothed the pain from many a fevered brow 
That bends with grateful blessing toward her now. 
And brighter grew her spirit all the while, 
As each new wounded sufferer caught her smile ; 
And when the soldier kissed her shadow on the wall, 
It proved her sphere triumphant over all. 
Let woman like true heroine nobly stand 
If needs be, with the scalpel in her hand ; 
It turns to balm, to win back life again, 
That hand as soft to soothe the sufferer's pain. 
No voice like hers to man was ever given, 
To speak of hope, or point the soul to heaven. 
And who can better teach of God above. 
Than she who has a higher sense of love 
Than man can know ; in whose aspiring soul 
Devotion in its richest anthems roll ? 
I say most earnestly, I think her place 



THE POET. 73 

Is side by side with man when saving grace 

Is named : except her home, if there's one sphere 

Where woman most belongs, I know 'tis here. 

In private or in public, 'tis no shame 

For her pure lips to speak God's Holy Name. 

With all her power, wherever woman can, 

It is her glorious mission to save man ! 

Mrs. Seymour, smiling. 

We read, thou knowest, that Woman first of all, 

In Eden tempted man unto his fall ! 

If but as punishment for that old crime, — 

For which we've groaned and toiled throughout all 

time, — 
And to redeem her wrong, she ought to teach. 
This proves undoubtedly her right to preach. 
If she was- first to drag Man from the skies, 
Now, let her tempt his soul again to rise. 
If done as easily as was the first. 
With wicked men we'll not be long accursed ! 

Clifton, laughing. 

Thou hast the argument ! I'm forced to yield, 

Not to thy husband, but thyself the field. 

And though I'm not convinced, I bide my fate, 

\_Aside. 
If thou wilt only be the tempter, Kate I 



74 POEMS. 



Mr. Seymour. 



Well, well, we'll see. The world is growing wise, 
Another age may prove what this denies. 
It has been so through all the ages past, 
Truth deified, though martyred in the last. — 
But where is Bruce ? He tarries somewhat late. * 

Clifton. 

Ah, that's the very thing I wished to state ! 

'Tis quite in keeping with our talk to-night, 

He called to ask my aid to make all right. 

A friend of his, you know him very well, 

The great reformer and fanatic. Bell, 

Has found a prodigy ; and so invites 

A few choice friends to share in his delights. 

It seems we've got a Poet, fresh and new. 

And sudden as the northern lights, if true. 

Who writes us books all crowded full of tliought, 

With power from unimagined helpers caught. 

And not content with that, must improvise 

Songs snatched all fresh and new from out the skies, 

Until 'tis said the city's half awake. 

I ought to hope 'tis true just for thy sake. 

Because the Poet is a woman, helping prove 

The very theory thou seem'st to love. 



THE POET. 75 

Ida. 



Perhaps it is the same who wrote this book, — 
This, Mr. Clifton ! wilt thou jalease to look ? 
I'll wait till Henry comes — I'm sure he'll know. 
I'm glad he's there ! How I should like to go ! 
Do tell me more ! Does she recite, or sing ? 
ikjid from what power do all her talents spring ? 

Clifton. 

You must excuse me. I but just now heard 
The simple fact, and not another word. — 
But Bruce is coming round ; if not too late, 
He'll be most happy every fact to state. 
He's head and ears in love with these new things, 
And every poet wins his offerings. 

Kate. 

Not more than Ida ! Why, she's lost her heart 
Already with this witch's written art ! 
If meeting the enchantress, who can tell 
How readily she'll bow beneath her spell. 
Perhaps she'd bind her with a chain of rhyme. 
And all around her cast the fragrant thyme ; 
Pcrliaps her own mysterious skill impart. 
Till Ida too would have her magic art. 
How is it, Ida, would it suit thy taste. 



76 POEMS. 

With poet's starry mantle to be graced, 

Till thousands hung enraptured on thy word, 

And every spirit to its depths was stirred ? 

Id A . 

It would indeed. I'm not like thee in jest, 
I'd like it of all things in life the best. 
I'm %ing to have Henry come, to tell 
If he has fallen, too, beneath this spell ! 

Mr. Seyimour. 

Well, here he comes ! I hear him m the hall. 
He little dreams how we await his call ! 

[^Enter Henry Bruce, a 7nan of intellect, travel, and liberal 
views. An old friend of Mr. Seymour, and on terms 
of intimacy with the whole family. 

What recompense for having made us wait ? 

Mr. Bruce. 

I beg thou wilt excuse me, though I'm late ; 

I've just been having what I call a treat. 

And one that every day I may not meet. 

I knew thou wouldst not miss me much — I come 

And go like one who feels himself at home. 

And as 'tis early yet, I just dropped in 

To tell th6 news — let that excuse my sin ! 



THE POET. 77 

Mr. Seymour. 

By Clifton we have just been kindly told 
YouVe been the Improvisatrice to behold ; 
And Ida thinks the same who wrote this book ; 
It lies beside thee there — just take one look ! 

Mr. Bruce. 

The very same ! I know not what to think 
Of this- strange woman ; for she seems a link 
Between the dwellers of the earth and sky ; 
I cannot fathom all this mystery. 
I was told candidly by Mr. Bell, 
Who's known her from her early childhood well, 
That ever from her earliest days of youth, 
She's borne the stamp of virtue and of truth. 
And yet it seems untrue, that all unsought 
The songs she sung were by lier spirit caught. 
And that the words I heard her lips recite. 
Were fresh and new, unheard until to-night. 
I thought the power to imjyrovise had past. 
Or lingered only in Italia last. 
Old Scotia's minstrels long have sunk to rest, 
The sod lies damp and heavy on tlieir breast ; 
And this cold climate slowly fosters song. 
Yet was the inspiration high and strong. 
I heard in Italy those people sing ; 



78 POEMS. 

To me some thrilling charms around them cling, 

There's such a spirit of deep, wild unrest, 

With which the heart that listens is impressed. 

The music, wild but sweet, that fills the air, — 

The words that in the music's richness share, — 

And all fresh gushing from the hidden soul, 

Where deep within, its living waters roll. 

Like fountain leaping with its silvery spray, 

In wild, fantastic, and spontaneous play. 

No studied thought to fashion style or rhyme, 

But free and gushing, fitted to the time. 

Though ofttimes simple — songs from out the heart — 

Yet has my soul when weary of cold art, 

Loved better far this voice of Nature's child. 

Its weird-like tones, its native genius wild. 

Than all the words the world's famed poets sung, 

When science, art, had trained their pen and tongiie. 

But this was richer than I ever heard ; 

A thrilling grandeur swept through every word. 

At times the spirit seemed to soar away, 

As if it knew the path to endless day ; 

And then the tones died soft and strangely sweet. 

As if Liome echo caught them to repeat ; 

Then, springing upward with a sudden flight, 

^lung back the shadows into blackened night. 

Then came her recitations, full of thouglit, 

As if the fire of genius she had caught, 



THE POET. 79 

And poured it o'er her words, until the heart 
Sent back response to all its tlmlling art. 
It lifted one from each corroding chain 
That boimd the soul, and gave it strength again. 
And that which in the whole I most admire — 
She would compel the spirit to aspire. 
- And when she stood in simple greatness there, 
With that strange smile the features ever wear 
When lit with thoughts that soar beyond the earth, 
Or when some latent power springs into birth, 
W^ith words that strangely on the soul could win, 
I thought of Italy's far-famed Corinne. 
Not crowned by mortal hand she stood to-night ; 
Yet wore it well, all queenly, royal, bright. 
Thought's fresh, gi-een laurel on her youthful brow — 
I almost tliink I see and hear her now. 

Clifton. 

Just what I said ! I knew thou wouldst go mad 

O'er this strange spirit in mortal garments clad. 

But candidly, I must confess, I doubt 

That she pours forth such thrilling strain without 

Premeditated thought ; such things are strange, 

And go beyond the vision's common range. 

Is it not reasonable to suppose. 

That she is artful, and, because she knows 

Men love the marvellous, takes this novel way 



80 . POEMS. 

O'er thousands' hearts to hold a stronger sway ? 
I know not why she has sach sudden power ; — 
True talent springs not strong in one short hour. 
This Bell may be deceived. He finds a spell 
In every miracle. Thou knowest him well. — 
And didst thou hear her speak herself of this, 
Or where or how she found such power or bliss ? 

Bruce. 

I simply heard her say, for weary years. 
With silent prayers and efforts, and with tears. 
She sought for power to speak her thought in word. 
Until at last her earnest prayer was heard, 
And strangely answered. O'er her came a power. 
Swift, sudden as the morning's coming hour, 
And all her thoughts leaped up with sudden start, 
Like life-blood flowing outward from the heart. 
She says, the power e'en to herself is strange, — • 
Not yet accustomed to this wondrous change. 
But all her soul seems looking toward the heaven, 
In one thanksgiving unto Him who's given. 

Ida. 

And was she gifted in her natural mood ? 
And did she seem as one that's- true and good ? 
Was she like mortal, fairy, witch, or elf, 
Or d'd she look a woman in herself? 



THE POET. 81 

Bruce. 
Not unlike others, modest in her guise, 
A soul of goodness beaming from her eyes, 
Yet nothing marked to tell the power within, 
That, when aroused, so many hearts must win. 
She'd mingle in the crowd, and scarce be seen. 
With thoughtful face, and modest, graceful mien ; 
But when her harp is once within her hands. 
And rapt, inspired, before the world she stands, 
A glow spreads over all her face and brow, 
Before which others can not fail to bow. 
And in her eye is kindled burning fire. 
As if 'twere filled with an intense desire 
For something beautiful it caught afar. 
And beams and beckons like a morning star. 
It seemed as though some angel's presence shed 
A glory over all, and round her spread 
The influence of a higher sphere divine. 
All through her being in pure light to shine. 
I cannot think, like Clifton, that she played 
A part most false, when such true words she said ; 
Her look and manner were too great, too high, — 
If false at all, she was herself a lie. 
Though strange, though still I cannot understand, 
Yet as I see her, harp withhi her hand. 
With that unearthly look that brighter grew, 
1 could not, if I would, think her untrue. 



82 POEMS. 

Ida . 

I'd give the world to see her, hear her speak ! 

For this strange power with all my soul I'd seek. 

Is there no way for me to reach this shrine, 

And pay her homage ? for this book won mine. 

But then, how could she care for one like me. 

When thousands flock her wondrous power to see ? 

And yet it seems, if I could see her face, 

And in it all the living goodness trace 

That I have found impressed upon this page, 

'Twould give me strength and power, almost an age. 

It made some chords within my spirit thrill. 

That once awake, I know I cannot still. 

And could I know her, even though but slight 

The intercourse, it seems as though it might 

Give strength to something in me tliat would speak, 

That yearns, aspires, and yet is all too weak. — 

Laugh, Kate ! I do not mind ; — I know I'm young ; 

Life's harp to me is only newly strung ; 

But I shall follow out this whim of mine. 

In spite of that mischievous smile of thine. 

I love the power that speaks of life within. 

That wins the soul away from vice and sin ; 

And to avow my love I'm not ashamed, — 

No, not if by tlie censuring world I'm blamed. 

Now Henry, Father, do contrive to make 

Some place of meeting, just for my poor sake ! 



THE POET. 83 

Bruce. 

Well, that is quickly done. For, but next week, 
Within some public hall she is to speak, 
And thou canst see and hear her there, and then 
Li after-time perhaps may meet again. 

Ida. 

Oh, I'm delighted ! I shall count the hours, 
Until I see, and hear, and know her powers. 

Kate. 

Why, Ida ! wouldst thou go to hear her there ? 

I'm sure I would not wisli such joy to share. 

I think a woman in a public hall, 

The thousands round her to promiscous call, 

To criticise her dress, — if 'tis with grace, 

To analyze her form, her eye, her face. 

And hand her name about in public streets, 

Where every loafer, privileged repeats. 

Lets herself down from woman's lofty sphere, 

And /for one^ would never go to hear. 

Mr. Seymour. 

Well, everybody to their taste ; but I 
The gifts of this strange being mean to try. 
If destitute of power to wisely teach, 



84 POEMS. 

Incapable the soul's deep chords to reach, 
I think she's out of place. But if she's power 
As my friend Bruce proclaims for her this hour, 
I think she's standing just where woman should, 
When she has power to do the world a good. 

Clifton. 

I'll not discuss the matter o'er again ; — 

My real thought, perhaps, might give thee pain. 

Although I think 'twould bring to friend of mine 

Disgrace enough, yet if thou wilt, she's thine. 

Let each one to his own opinion cling, 

And if she will, .why, let her talk and sing ! 

'Tis naught to me. I only go my way, — 

'Twill be forgotten by another day, — 

While thou'lt go thine. And Ida, I expect, — 

Nay, even now I think I can detect 

The poet's power half lurking in thine eye, — 

That thou this woman's skill will seek to try. 

Now please to write som§ eulogy for me : 

With thy vocation though I can't agree ; 

Yet should I kneel at any poet's shrine. 

Depend upon it, Ida, 'twill be thine. 

It matters little which is wrong or right, — 

But I must go, so say to all, good-night. 

[^Exeunt Clifton. Miss Walters soon retires. 



THE POET. 85 

Bruce. 
What notions Kate and Clifton entertain, 
pf woman's sphere ! Of course, they would not deign 
To step on such unconsecrated ground. 
As that where public teachers may be found 
In woman's form, though pure as drifted snow. 
And though an angel's speech might through them 

flow, 
To purify each spirit that might hear — 
Because " they step from woman's lofty sphere." 
And yet they listen with intense delight. 
And countenance, applaud, night after night, 
The Drama, in whose scenes must woman take 
An active part, — half its attraction make ; — 
Women whose souls, not always clean and pure, 
To virtue's paths the listener's heart to lure ; 
Women whose lips speak oft the fatal word, 
By which some heart to vice at first is stirred ; 
Women who act ignoble parts, that shame 
True woman's nature, without word of blame ; — 
Nor think, though immorality they hear, 
That women there has stepped from out her sphere. 
Or, if they think, care not, but clap again 
The actors, pandering to the base in men. 
To low and vitiated tastes ; that smile — 
And shame their better natures — at the vile, 
Degrading passions in the human In^east, 



86 POEMS. 

In virtue's garb by talent almost dressed. 

I do not mean by this, that I ignore 

The drama's true-to-nature, thrilhng lore, 

Or that I would demolish, in disgust, 

The Stage, — though much it panders to man's lust ; 

For, rightly managed, 'twould prove mightier power 

Than e'en the pulpit, in the present hour ; 

Because the clergy are too much inclined, 

To space so limited to chain the mind, 

And narrate facts, and coldly speak their thought, 

While life and inspiration have been caught 

By the true Actor ; he, the facts, the men. 

In voice, and look, and action, lives again. 

The preacher carves the statue cold and still, 

The actor with the living soul can fill. • 

One hangs a glowing picture on the wall. 

The other, with true genius in his call. 

Shall bid the figures from the canvas start. 

And step forth men, with living brain and heart, 

To thrill through eye and ear, and reach the soul. 

Until he triumphs, victor o'er the whole. 

If men would act the Christ on this same Stage, — 

His life as pictured on the written page, — 

And throw a truthfulness in every word. 

As Booth stood forth, another " Ricliard Third," 

'Twould take such hold upon the gazing heart. 

As seldom comes from any preacher's art. 



• THE POET. 87 

Like Christ, the earnest actor then should stani, 
With blood -stains in his side, and foot, and hand ; 
And in his power, the scene long passed away. 
Should be enacted in the present day ; 
Till unbelieving Thomas, rapt, should cry, 
'' I do believe — like thee I'll live — thou'rt nigh." 
There have been preachers with this thrilling art. 
Who dared to touch with living fire the heart. 
Paul must have been like this ; such Luther was ; 
And every Whitefield from this fountain draws. 
And in our day, the Beechers, Chapins, thrill. 
And move, and sway the human heart at will, 
Because their spirit glows through every thought : 
Old creeds and doctrines, thus new fire have caught, 
And burn and brighten on the hearts of men. 
Until old manna seems like new again. 
Let men like these tread this degraded Stage, 
And reenact what's called the Sacred Page ; 
Let women, like our Jenny Lind, but sing 
The songs of Miriam's daughters, now to ring; 
Let others in our midst, whose pen has been 
The bright interpreter of thoughts within. 
O'er whom the star of Intellect has hung, — 
Whose brightest rays are purity, — find tongue, 
And act no part except the pure and high. 
The Drama in the dust no more would lie ; 
But from the chains of vice and sin be free, 



88 POEMS. 

And upward spring to native purity. 

There are some noble souls, I know, that now 

Live Actor's hves, with lofty soul and brow ; 

Who will not, like the rest, degrade their heart, 

But act their lives as nobly as their part. 

I honor them ; but round the Stage there clings 

Such filthy rubbish from foul offerings, 

Such fallen women, and such worthless men, 

I seldom go to Theatres ; and then 

When some one worthy of a higher place. 

With life and genius pure, the boards may grace. 

The people are to blame ; they should demand 

The fallen Drama now to take a stand 

Above the mass, and be the impulse given, 

No more to drag toward hell, but point to heaven. 

It might not pay the managers as well 

(And so for gold they feed the flames of hell) 

In its first start, but when the fires once burn, 

Of Genius, pure, refined, the good would turn — 

That now are kept so far by vice away — 

And honor it, and help it bear its sway ; 

Until its clear and ever lofty tone. 

Should move the people's hearts to claim their own, 

And feel its power for good, to truth to bind. 

Where now the youthful but a tempter find. 



THE POETy 89 

Mr. Se ymo ur. 
Thou'rt right. There lies the field for such great 

good, 
And yet, how thoroughly misunderstood ! 
The vile stand ready at its open gate, 
The good, disgusted, leave it to its fate. 
All wrong. And yet how hopeless seems the task, 
To renovate the tastes of those who ask 
For such vile trash ; then coldly turn away 
En masse, — like Clifton and like Kate to-day, — 
With careless thought, without a noble aim. 
And idly bow at pleasure's shrine ; yet claim 
An aristocracy too high, too grand, 
To tread the ground where God's own martyrs stand, 
Whose path through thorns is marked with sweat 

and blood. 
While sinners in high places men call good. 
I almost thought I was severe to-night 
To Kate, but now I think it was but right 
Her father was a man of noble mind, — 
She's like her mother, every day I find. 
I've done my best. She's thoughtless, heartless 

still ; — 
With her I have exhausted all my skill." 
I grieve. Her father was my truest friend. 
And on his death-bed begged of me to lend 
My aid in moulding Kate's young, careless mind ; 



90 " POEMS. ■ 

But all in vain, day after day we find. 
And now she weds herself to one more vain, 
Whose character is not without a stain ; 
But rich, and fond of pleasure, full of mirth. 
Like thousands, she mistakes it all for worth. 
Before two years are past, I fear she'll know 
The pang of life's first, great, heart-crushing blow. 

Bruce. 

Whoever marries Clifton, may expect — 

Though at the first with flowers and jewels decked — 

To find him selfish, arrogant, and vain, 

And get at least their share of this life's pain. 

'Tis well for her - — the day her soul repents — 

That nature gave her not that finer sense 

Of right and wrong, and of life's noblest aims, 

That of another such high standard claims. 

It pains my heart to see a woman, fine 

And delicate, whom God made half divine, 

So keenly sensitive in feeling, thought. 

By misalliance to the level brought 

Of some coarse, brutal, and unfeeling mind. 

That by strange spell is round her own intwined. 

To have her noblest thoughts thrown back unknown, 

Appreciative or responsive tone 

Never awoke within his careless breast — 

Perhaps considered worse her very best ; 



THE POET. 91 

And see him drag her down to his low plane, 
As years pass on, or know the soul's deep pain 
Consumes the life ; though breathed not one com- 
plaint — 
Bearing its burden like God's chosen saint, — 
Till weary of its martyr pathway here. 
Like summer bird it seeks a brighter sphere. 
It makes one wonder if a Higher Power 
Can watch, unmoved, such bitter trial-hour ; 
Or if such '' marriages were made in Heaven " — 
I'm sure, God's sanction was not asked or given. 

Mrs. Seymour. 

It is most terrible to know the strife 

So apt to mix itself with married life. 

And when I see such feelings of unrest. 

Half hidden, half exposed in many a breast, 

I shudder at the thought of our escape, 

And wonder how stern destiny could shape 

Such bliss for us as only comes to few — 

Two souls that met, and keep their love still new. 

Mr.Seyiniour. 

Ah, yes, while pity rises in my breast, 

I'm yet more grateful we have been so blest. 

May Ida be as happy in her choice. 



92 POEMS. 

If ever comes the time when her loved voice 
Shall answer back to some fond, loving heart, 
And from her home we see her steps depart. 

Ida. 

Now, father, now I shall begin to think 

Thou dost believe I'm just upon the brink 

Of matrimony ; for thy words, thy tone, 

Are sad as if I were already gone. 

My head is quite too full of poets now, 

At any other shrine than theirs to bow. 

I must reread Corinne. 'Twas long ago 

I saw the work. I will this moment go 

And get it, and refresh again my mind, 

Anticipating thus what I shall find. 

When I at last this new Corinne shall see, 

And listen to her words with ecstasy. 

\_She passes into the library, that opens from the parlor. 
Bruce soon follows her. 

Bruce. 

I thought I'd come and help thee find the book, — 
I don't believe thou'rt competent to look. 
Parnassus' dust I know has filled thine eyes. 
In this thy swift ascent to poets' skies. 
Be careful ! Pegasus is no safe steed ; 
He throws the rider who takes little heed ; 



THE POET, 93 

And all Castalia's waters may be found 
Still insufficient to assuage the wound. 
Perhaps the Muse has visited thee ; thy brow 
Bears poet's seal, I see it even now. 

Ida. 

Ah, jest ! I've found the book, and here it lies, — 
That proves which of us two has better eyes. 
And as for words about my skyward flight, 
I'd rather fall, than always stay in night. 
And if my soul could get, for once to drink 
Castalia's waters, I would tempt the brink 
Of any mount, however steep and high — 
Despite the look I see within thine eye. 

Bruce. 

Wliat didst thou see ? I do not jest, indeed ! 
I only wish my hand had power to lead. 
Sit down a moment. Let us talk of this 
Bright gift, that seems to thee so much a bliss. 
I've often thought, when I have heard thee speak, 
With such a burning glow upon thy check, 
And such an earnest, radiant, soul-lit eye. 
Of life, of poesy, and all things high ; 
And when I've seen thee sit all lost in thought, 
As if some unseen power thy soul had caught. 
And borne it from thy body's power afar, 



94 POEMS. 

With lightning's steeds, and thought's bright-bur- 
nished car, 
That thou must have an artist's soul, and now 
To-night I see it more on face and brow. 
I know most unmistakably this hour. 
That if thou wilt, thou canst rouse latent power 
To answer to this ardent wish of thine. 
Confess thy heart ! thou canst confide in mine ! 
For I suspect that thou hast tried thine art 
At writing rhymes — Ah, Ida, why that start ? 
Now tell me all ; my interest is strong ; 
In thy heart's earnest wish I've seen it long : 
And let me be in this to thee a friend, 
And if I can in aught, my best powers lend. 

Ida. 

Oh, wilt thou ? Then shall I feel truly blest ; 

For much and long I've tried, and yet my best 

Has been so weak, so more than wholly vain, 

I've often thought I'd never try again. 

But then some new desire impels me on ; — - 

I strive and fail again, as I had done. 

I've always kept it secret until now, 

Not even my dear parents would allow 

To know, although it is the only one 

I've hid from them since first my life begun. 

I could write nothing worthy of a smile, 



THE POET. 95 

And so I kept it hidden all the while. 

But now thoTi know'st the fact, I gather strength, 

And feel as though I'd found a friend at length. 

Thou couldst do much to help me, very much, — 

Such help, oh, I hare always pined for such I 

Thou hast a critic's eye, at once to see 

Defects that might be hidden quite from me ; 

Thou hast such true poetic taste to train. 

Assist my own, I shall take heart again. 

Such range of thought, of history, of fact. 

And scholarship, and travel, would exact 

A higher style than I alone could reach. 

Without some mind like thine to train and teach. 

And then I know so kindly 'twould be done 

That I'd grow strong e'en with the censure won. 

At least I can but fail, and if I do. 

Thou must catch up the strain, and make it new. 

I marvel much that thou dost never write 

The thoughts that in thee shine like stars in night. 

Perhaps to this true motto thou hast clung : 

"The sweetest songs are those no voice has sung." 

Bruce. 

The motto is most true. Those who hava spoke 
The words that into life the heart has woke, 
No matter how the song may thrill and burn, 
Though lofty souls in reverence to it turn, 



96 POEMS. 

Yet, deep within their souls in sweetness ring, 
Songs richer, deeper far, they cannot sing. 
To these belongs no Anglo-Saxon word ; 
The soul's dim aisles alone by such are stirred : 
And only they with spirits just as fine, 
Can catch these '' wordless songs '' almost divine. 
As they who listen to some murmuring shell. 
That in its plaintive melody will tell 
Forever of its home, the far-off sea ; 
So soul speaks ever of Immensity. 
No doubt the artist wliom I heard to-night, 
Whose words were filled with such a power and light, 
Is haunted ever by a sense of pain. 
Because her richest songs will still remain • 

In far unfathomed depths, yet sing for aye, 
As if to mock, with rich strains far away, 
* Those she has caught and pours o'er others here. 
With visions of a more melodious sphere. 
And yet those very pains but serve to wake 
Still richer gifts, far sweeter songs to make. 
The power within that shames the work best done, 
Is that which has most glorious victories won. 
The grand Ideal gives the mind no rest, 
Until a second work shall shame the best : 
Thus drawing deeper ever from the fount, 
Thus scaling higher still Progression's mount. 
Yet, Ida, those wlio best succeed, and give 



THE POET. 97 

The world best songs, too apt iu sadness live, 
Because their greatest power gives them to know 
Still richer wealth in mind's far depths lielow, 
And feel the link that binds them to the Soul 
From whence these powers through all their being 

roll. 
It is a solemn thing ; for they, the great. 
Stand at the portal of Heaven's open gate. 
With bright effulgence ever pouring tln-ough, 
While of its gifts their souls can use so few. 
And yet 'tis not because I feared to use 
The mind's rich gifts, that I would such refuse ; 
For nature gave me not the power to sing. 
Though at such shrine I pay rich offering. 
My songs are all in thought ; I have no word ; 
Alone my heart by their rich tone is stirred. 
Bat 'tis not so with thee ; I watch and wait 
To see thee enter at the outer gate. 

Id A . 

I can but knock ; though I am more afraid, 
After the words by thee so truly said. 
But yet, I'm weary waiting in the cold. 
And that perhaps has made me overbold. 
The faint in heart shall never win, they say, 
So I will not despair, at least, to-day. 
And sometime when thou hast a leisure hour. 



98 POEMS. 

I humbly beg thou'lt test my want of power, 
By reading just a few of my poor riiymes, — 
That I've revised yet vainly — many times, — 
To make suggestions and to criticise, 
To tear them into shreds till each one dies. 
Though at their w^eakness I feel deepest shame. 
And dread the ordeal, yet thou wilt not blame, 
But point to better things, till all my pain, 
Though hard to bear, at last results in gain. 

Bl^UCE. 

You've little to expect from me, save this : 

" Two heads are better than is one." The bliss 

Of making one poor effort for thy sake. 

And watching oft the progress thou shalt make, 

Will be a greater favor given me. 

Than all the little good I do for thee. — 

Why not to-morrow morning ? I'll come in ; — 

Such pleasant task I'm anxious to begin. 

Ida. 

Thou'lt weary soon enough, I have no doubt, 
To find what foolishness I've been about. 
But any time, it matters not how soon ; — 
I fear I'll lose my confidence ere noon. 
And have such dread to meet my critic's face 
ril lock my papers closer in their place. 



THE POET. 99 

Bruce. 

Then I'll come early. I've no wish to lose 

This promised treat ; and then thou canst but choose 

Fulfil engagements made in such good truth. 

Lest I should hold responsible, insooth. 

Fearing another moment thou'lt relent, 

I'll thank thee for this hour so richly spent. 

And say, good-night. May pleasant dreams be v\\:y\ 

Tln'ough all thy soul — leave blessings on thy bead ' 

\_Ue passes into the parlor as Ida retires, and finds Mr. 
Seymour alone. 

Mr. Seymour. 

Well, Bruce, with eyes of both I think it took 
Rather a tedious time to find the book. 
With reading, I went fast asleep, I own, 
And when I woke I found myself alone. 
Sit down, my friend, 'tis not so very late, — 
And then thou'st no one in thy home to wait. 

Bruce. 

" No one to wait for me ! " I wish I had. 
Seymour, I think 'tis really quite too bad 
That thou hast such a home, such happiness, 
While I have none my lieart or hearth to bless. 
We grew up side by side, as schoolmates, boys, 



100 POEMS. 

Almost the same our interests and our joys ; 

But I have been a wanderer over earth, — 

Culling/ tis true, oft here and there its worth, — 

And now at thirty-five I cease to roam, 

And find thee with a wife to bless thy home. 

And such a daughter ! If 1 dared to speak 

The thoughts for which all words are powerless, 

weak, — 
Can I presume upon our olden love, 
To say without restraint, I prize above 
All other bliss that life may have in store. 
Thy daughter, whom I know thou dost adore ? 
And as I lieard thee say to-night, dost dread 
The hour when she, who o'er thine own lias shed 
Such- light, shall bless another's lieart and liome. 
I know with what bad grace these words will come, 
And yet within my soul, since that first hour 
I saw. her face, has slowly woke a power 
No other face or voice has caused to thrill, 
A love intense, I have no power to still. 
I've striven long to check this love, that came 
So silently, — I have no causa for blame, — 
Because I knew 'twould l^e so hard for thee 
To yield her unto any, thus to me. 
And she so young, so full of artless grace, 
I cannot look upon her fiiir young face. 
Without a pang. How can I hope to win 



THE POET. 101 

Her heart's first love ? It seenis almost a sin 
To ask to wear in this poor heart of mine, 
A flower so fresh, that seems so half divine. 
I had resolved on silence, till to-night 
Her mind awoke with such a glow of light 
In our discussion, showing such a soul, 
In whose rich depths I hear sweet anthems roll, 
That all my heart arose with sudden power, 
And would claim audience now, this very hour. 

\Pause8. 
Thou dost not speak. I shall not blame thy w^ord, 
Though all my soul unto its depths is stirred 
With keenest anguisli ; for thou hast the right ; 
I hardly hoped for less than this to-night. 
1 do not know that 1 might ever win 
One thouglit from her, nor would I e'er begin 
That task, though ever hopeless it might be, 
Until 'twas sanctioned by a word from tliee. 
No look or tone of mine has ever shown 
Thy daugliter that my heart was all her own. 
I've closely guarded look and word, till now 
I stand beside thee with an unshamed brow. 
And say, that in thy daughter's hand must he — 
In her pure love, — my future destiny ! 

Mr. S e y 31 u r . 
Pardon me, Bruce, that I have seemed so cold : 
Fcr thou thy thoughts so suddenly hast told. 



102 POEMS. 

And on this subject nearest to my heart, 

I could not act the friend's, but father's part. 

I did not dream such thought could e'er be thine, 

That thou couldst love this treasured child of mine ; 

Thou, who hast seen the beauties of all lands. 

To have thy fate in such a young girl's hands 

Seems sudden, strange. Tho,ugli with a father's 

love 
I cherish her all others far above. 
Except her mother, could I give her up ? 
Yet sometime, doubtless, I must taste that cup. 
And now, I think there's not another heart 
For which I would so soon with Ida part. 
Or one that with such tenderness and truth 
Would love and cherish her, and guard her youth. 
If I, so young could think to let her go, 
I'd yield to thee, if she, too, willed it so ; 
But hardly seventeen, a child at best. 
Accustomed only to be loved, caressed, 
She is not fitted yet to be thy wife. 
And mingle in the duties, cares of life. 
When she shall leave her home, the fond hearts here, 
I wish her fitted well for woman's sphere*. 

Bruce. 

I did not ask that she should leave thy side, 
Or dare to think of her as my fair bride. 



THE POET. 103 

As yet. I only hoped at best to gain 

Permission, — though perhaps I give theo pain, — 

To strive to win her young heart to my own, 

Until it sends me back an answering tone. 

If I but win her love, though long and late 

Thou dost delay, I can with patience wait. 

To see her, hear her voice, and win her smile, 

Is happiness enough for me the while. 

Tin^ie- love is void of self, it seeks alone 

xlnother's happiness before its own ; 

And if one feeling in my heart is pure. 

This love for her is steadfast, earnest, sure. 

I never bowed l)efore at woman's shrine, 

And why at her's I hardly now divine. 

Save that I see in her pure soul a ray 

To burn and brighten to a glorious day ; 

And every look, and word, and act, reveals 

The presence of a power my spirit feels, 

Yet cannot clothe in words ; and over me 

It. casts a spell of peace and purity. 

I came from Europe, sick of all the world, — 

The giddy mazes where the people whirled 

In outward joy, life's burning grief within. 

Their best thoughts blasted with the fire of siii, — 

A sad misanthrope. Joy's first morn was o'er. 

I sought for peace upon my native shore, 

But with no thought there could bo joy for me ; 



104 ' POEMS. 

And in this mood I first encountered thee. 
It took me back to childhood's early days, 
It gave my heart its few first sunny rays ; 
But only when I saw thy daughter smile, 
With that child-woman face, so free from guile. 
My heart from its long lethargy awoke. 
And morning's glory through my midnight broke, - 
Not suddenly, but soft as comes the ray, 
The first that ushers in the golden day, — 
Until grown brighter with each added beam 
That lit the sky with still a richer gleam. 
Until all dazzling on my soul to-night, 
The day-god rose with voice, '' Let there be light ! 
And shall it shine for me, give joy again, 
Or will it only mock me with my pain ? 
'Tis not becoming that my lips should speak 
The things of my own self, that thou might seek 
In one who would make claim her love to win ; 
I only say, through my whole life I've been 
. A seeker for the good and beautiful in all : 
I could not bear to let my standard fall. 
And so, — though finding much of good in man. 
Yet poorly carried out each noble plan, — 
I grew more weary of my life each day. 
Cared not how soon it should be swept away. 
I craved a heart to answer back to mine, 
A.nd wake within me chords still more divine : 



THE POET. 105 

And finding not, as year by year past on, 

My hope to find at last was wholly gone. 

And yet I could not stoop as thousands do, 

To win a love as base as 'tis untrue ; 

And so alone amid the crowds I stood, 

Silent and cold, and never understood ; 

While in my heart still burned the living fire 

That for some nobler life would still aspire. 

And now, when I had closed my hopeless task. 

When I had almost ceased such gift to ask, 

I find a soul to give my own such rest, — 

If with as fervent love I might be blest ; 

And I could shrine it in my heart of hearts. 

With love undying, till all thought departs. 

And could I win thy daughter for my bride. 

She stands my equal : I have long defied 

The laws that make the woman subject to the man — 

A rule time-worshipped, but a barbarous plan. 

From every thrall of mine as far slie'd be, 

As now she moves in her own purpose free. 

Unworthy of the marriage rites the word, " obey ; " 

If love rules not, no other power can sway. 

A woman of true spirit spurns control, 

Yet wlien love asks, she nobly grants the whole. 

This is the secret of thy happy life. 

So high and free from all that petty strife. 

I yearn for happiness like thine to share, 



106 POEMS. 

A look of calm content like thine to wear ; 

And I would ask no other boon but this — 

Thy daughter's heart and hand — to bring such bliss. 

And could I know such bliss would be my. fate, 

The time thou askest I would gladly wait. 

Mr. Seymour. 

Thou art most honorable. I know thee true, 

That thou hast come to me, ere first thou drew 

Confession from her lips of love to thee : 

It has won thorough confidence from me. 

•I always knew thou hadst a noble heart, 

And in this matter such a generous part 

Hast thou now acted, that although I must 

Take time for thought — excuse me, I'll be just, — 

So sudden came thy purpose to my mind, 

So closely round my heart she is entwined — 

I bid thee welcome to my home and hearth, 

As thou hast been to all its joy and mirth ; 

And when my thoughts are calm and free from pain, 

Ere long, we'll talk this matter o'er again. 

Meanwhile, of this be well assured, that none 

But thee couldst speak such words as thou hast 

done, 
And win a second thought, for doubly mine 
In friendship's bonds thou wert, if she were thine. 



THE POET. 107 

«* Bruce. 

I take thy words. They bear a hope to me, 
And there is one more chord that binds to thee. 
Forgive the lateness of the hour; a spell 
Has bound me here to-night, but now, farewell ! 



SCENE III. 

Evening. A large public hall crowded with people of all classes. Mr. and 
Mrs. Seymour, Ida and Bruce, seated near the platform. 



Ida. 

'Tis near the time. I'm glad 'tis getting late. 
In such a place, how tedious 'tis to wait ! 

Bruce. 

Yes, in such public gatherings every kind 

Of influence meets, and every class of mind ; 

And with the busy tongues and moving feet, 

'Tis seldom one finds comfort in his seat. — 

I hope the entertainment will commence 

Ere long, just to relieve thy heart's suspense. 

Perhaps I set her gifts that night so high, 

'Twill disappoint in the reality ; 

And yet I have no fear. Here lies the charm 

Of every Improvisatrice, — in the caliii 

Or thrilling look of eye, and of the face, 

.The voice that catches some peculiar grace. 

That sends the words home with such burning power, 

They sway thee at their will, and charm the hour. 

And then the thought that fresh from out the mint 

108 



THE POET. 10.9 

Of mind, just newly-coined, — though seen in print 
It must lose half its charm, — when one can hear. 
Strikes home with such a wild-bird's note upon the 

ear, 
It seems as though the soul of one who sings, 
Leaps sudden forth, and like a fountain springs 
To meet thine own, and thou hadst caught the spray 
Of real, living waves of song, the ray 
Of golden sunhght over all outspread. 
Wrapped like a glittering rainbow round thy head. 
Here mind meets mind, fresh-gushing, young and 

new, 
The soul stands half revealed, if true, or if untrue. 
Catch up these words, and write them on a page, 
They're like a wild-bird drooping in a cage ; 
His song rings not so sweet and strong and clear. 
As when through forest-aisles it met the ear. 
There every tree caught up the wild notes sung. 
And back again in richer sweetness flung. 
Now, but the voice is heard, and in such hour 
His heart sings not ; there lived his greatest power. — 
She'll enter soon ; then judge with eye and ear. 
Whether '' she's stepped from woman's lofty sphere I " 
• 

I DA . 

I wonder where Kate is to-night ? Suppose 
At party, ball, or theatre — who knows ? 



IJO ^ POEMS. 

Bruce. 

Or Opera, — "Don Giovanni's" sung, — 

I think we'd surely find her there, among 

The town's eUte, who are not apt to trace 

The trail of vice when 'tis disguised with grace. 

I love the music, but detest each word. 

To-morrow night, 'tis " Norma," — hast thou heard? 

Id A . 
I have not, though I read it with delight. 

Bruce. 

We must be sure to go to-morrow night. 

I'll ask thy parents now, — 'twill be so fine, — 

If they'll consent to go, I know I've thine. 

Mr. Seymour. 

Bruce, Ida, hast thou heard those people there? 
I think thy pet from them will get her share 
Of vile abuse. Jiist list a moment, do ! 

StrangerLady. 

I don't believe a word ! It is untrue 

To think it comes impromptu, without thought : 

With such transparent sham I'll not be caught ! 



THE POET. Ill 

Young G- e n t l e m a n , with lohite vest, jewelled 
rings, and mustache. 

Perhaps she's beautiful, — would show her face : 
Her fair white hand perhaps she moves with grace. 
Who knows but I may fall in love, first sight, 
And failing to win her's, may go bedight ? 

Young Miss, ivith a simper. 
In love ! I never thought thou hadst a heart. 

Young Gentleman. 

In justice then thou ought to give me part 
Of thine.— 

Stranger Lady. 

I think it is a real shame ! 
I feel, myself, as very much to blame 
For coming here to-night. If Mrs. Brown 
Should know of this, she'd think us letting down 
Our dignity, to nnngle in this crowd. — 
Such things as these ought not to be allowed. 

Middle-Aged Gentleman, vnth an air uf 
careless indifference and mischievous look. 

I like to have the fun go on. I see 
One and another look surprised at me, 



^112 POEMS. 

And wonder much what motive brought me here. 
But then I am not proud, like thee, my dear ! 

Lady. 

Proud ! No indeed ! And so I find it hard 
To make the people our true sphere regard. 
But come alone hereafter, if thou wilt ! 
I'm sure, I hold it hardly less than guilt 
To countenance such things ; she may be vile, 
And use this new-born power as artful wile : 
No woman with a pure, unsinful heart. 
Would in a public place take such a part. 

Middle-Aged Gentleman. 

Not quite so bad as that, perhaps, my dear ! 
There's so much said about a woman's sphere 
Just now, perhaps she thinks she'll take a stand. 
And make her woman's voice ring through the land. 
Let's wait until we hear, and then decide. 
Without regard to fashion, vanity, or pride. 

Elderly Gentleman, ivith white neckcloth. 

Sir, at the best I deem it real sin. 
For her to stand such public place within. 
You know that Paul says, sir, " It is a shame 
For woman publicly to speak." I blame 
Her very much ; and then I have been told, 
She teaches such pernicious doctrines, bold, 



THE POET. 113 

As if she had no fear of God or man ; 
But I'm determined to defeat this plan 
Before 'tis older ; and I came to-night 
To hear her words myself, and just indite 
The heads. Next Sunday, I intend to preach 
A sermon, to denounce the whole, and teach 
My congregation of this deadly sin, 
Before she can commence their hearts to win. 
I meaii to warn my people, sir, to stay 
Within the fold, and not be led away 
By such strange women, teaching stranger things. 
Though with deceitful, siren voice she sings. 
I'll do my duty, though it is a cross 
To come, — in Heaven I shall make up the loss ! 

\_Sighs. 

Bruce, to Mr. Sepmour, laughing. 

We have gone back to Pharisees again ! 

He thanks his God, he's not a,s other men. 

No matter, truth will bide the test of all, 

And by it let our poet stand or fall. 

I hope he'll get a hit or two to-night. — 

Ah, here she comes ! They just tufn on the liglU .' 

8 



114 POEMS. 

Improvisatrice. 

\_Enter Improvisatrice, preceded hy an attendant hearing a 
harp. Intense silence in the audience. She leans over 
the harp a few moments, then raising her eyes toward 
heaven, touches the strings and commences singing. 

I seek no homage from the crowd. 

Though hushed in silence long ; 
I sing at last because my soul 

Will pour itself in song ; 
Because a fountain leaps within, 

Whose ever-dashing spray 
Can catch the light, and bear it back, 

Like golden beams of day. 

It matters not to me, the thought 

That others round me fling. 
When on this altar now I lay 

My heart's best offering. 
Far from the world I wrap me up 
► In robes that none can see. 

And find true joy in Thee, my God, 

If none shall smile on me. 

I only care that other hearts 

Should feel this thrill of mine, — 
A chord electric that would draw 

Each soul more close to Thine. 



THE POET. 115 

I only pray for power to break 

From every soul its chain, 
A gift to win the tears that wash 

Away each guilty stain. 

human heart ! that throbs and beats, 

So wrung with bitter grief, 
Cast every sin from out thy midst. 

And thou shalt find relief ! 
When pure and clear as crystal shines 

The human soul shall be, 
There is no place within its depths 

For such deep misery. 

The light of heaven shall beam and burn 

Unto its' depths below ; 
Through crystal wails it enters in, 

Like mist, dispersing woe. 
And round its shrine for evermore 

The golden rays shall cling, 
And through its aisles in thrilling strains, 

The angel, Peace, shall sing ! 

\Slie pauses, leaning again upon her harp. 

\Enter Attendant, hearing a letter to the Improvisatrice. 
She reads, exchanges a few words with him, and he 
then calls the attention of the audience. 



116 POEMS. 

Attendant. 

It is requested by some persons here — 
Who marvel much at this strange power, and fear 
The songs thus sung are first prepared with thought, 
And then committed, ready to be brought 
^ Before the pubhc in this novel way, 
To exercise on all a greater sway — 
That some one in the audience this hour 
Themselves should give a theme, to test the power 
Of this strange poet-songstress — something new, — 
And if she sings at once, it proves her true. 
She cheerfully consents, because 'twill prove 
The truth of this strange art she claims and loves. — 
The gentleman who gave me this request. 
Will please step forward. Let it be addressed — 
The subject — in a voice distinct and clear, 
That every person in the hall may hear ! 

Gentleman, stepping forward. 

This power, so strange, seems hardly to belong 

Except to Italy, the land of song ; 

And I must be forgiven, if I doubt 

The power that brings these strange results about. 

Though much I've heard of this strange singer's 

power. 
If she shall sing as readily this hour 



THE POET. 117 

From subject I propose, I will believe, 
And as a truth at once the art receive.' 
'Tis this — I speak it with an honest heart : 
" From whence — what power — has come this 
singer's art ? " 

\TJie Improvisatrice turns her eyes upon the audience, 
touches her harp, and without a moment'' s thought, 
chants in a clear, sweet voice, these words : — 

. From the dancing rill 
That will leave the hill 

For the brooklet far away ; 
From the mountain springs, 
From the fount that flings 

To the sunbeam, crystal spray ; 

From the ocean caves. 
From the foam-capped waves. 

From the shells and coral deep ; 
From the rock-ribbed shore. 
Where the sad waves pour 

All their deep anthems loud and deep ; 

From the forest aisles. 
Where the sunbeam smiles. 

And with flowers the sod is dressed ; 
From the shadowy vale 
In the twilight pale. 

When the sun has gone to rest ; 



118 POEMS. 

From the clouds that sweep 
Through the azure deep, 

In their gold and crimson light ; 
From the starry eyes 
Of the summer skies, 

That will shine because 'tis night ; 

Yes, from Nature's sod, 
" Up to Nature's God," 

Has the unseen power been given ; 
Till it led my soul 
Through the mighty whole, 

To the gates of yon bright Heaven ! 

With each human mind 
There's a cord entwined. 

And a hidden, unseen law; 
That have given the power. 
In each passing hour, 

From its wealth and strength to draw. 

From the Angel band 
In the summer land, 

Where the loved ones ever go, 
There's a wealth of thought 
By the spirit caught, 

When their inspirations flow. 



THE POET. 119 

There's an inner shrine 
That is more divine 

Than a mortal eye can see ; 
And in all that lives-, 
There's a soul that gives 

Of its best gifts unto me. 

When I'm most alone 
With this deep unknown, 

Then the strongest is its power ; 
When my thoughts are pure, 
Then I know 'tis sure 

O'er my soul its best to shower. 

In the busy strife 
Of this careless life, 

From my soul it hides away ; 
But it comes again, 
With a low sweet strain. 

When my spirit bends to pray. 

From my own deep soul 
Do the anthems roll, 

Till they mingle with the rest ; 
Oh, many a mind 
Has the power to find, 

For their heart, this welcome guest. 



120 POEMS. 

And my fervent prayer, 
Is this robe to wear, 

Wherever I press the sod ; 
Then to bear it back, 
In my homeward track. 

Unstained, to the giver, God ! \ 

\^She pauses enrapt, leaving the audience in breathless si- 
lence. 

Gentleman, rising. 

I rise to say that I believe no power 
Had framed that song until this present hour. 
My doubts on that point now are set at rest — 
I think the owner of such gift is blest. 

\_Resumes his seat. 

I M P R VI S A T R I C E , 

[Leaving her harp and stepping forward, gives immediately 
the following , in recitation. 

Ay, blest ! my soul is richly blest this hour. 
That even one heart sees and knows this power. 
And deems me truthful as I stand to-night. 
And worthy of this golden shower of light. 
I have no motive to deceive in this ; 
It could not bring my soul a greater bliss. 
And as I see the eyes that look on mine, 
And know behind them lies a soul divine. 



THE POET, 121 

That yearns forever of God's truth to know, 

And fain would learn from whence all thought must 

flow, 
I could not stoop to give my soul to sin, 
A thought of homage from this crowd to mn. 
I see some faces here whose thoughts I trace, 
That think a public hall is not my place 
Because a w^oman ; others who would blame 
And cast reproach unkindly on my name ; 
Others who know not what to think the while, 
But half between their pi^ise and blame, they smile ; 
And others still, who fear what some may think, 
Thougli to their lips the cup they dare not drink. 
But more than all the rest, through eyes, the heart 
Of many kindly look upon this art. 
To such my soul goes out in earnest speech. 
Those hearts I know my words will soonest reach. 
My fervent prayer is, may God's truth be given ; 
On motives true, I stake my hopes of heaven.— 
What shall I speak to thee, my friends, this hour ? 

Voice in the Audience. 
Explain, as far as possible, thy power ! 

ImPRO VIS ATRI CE. 

That will I gladly do. And yet no word 

Can speak the power with \diich my soul is stirred. 



122 POEMS. 

For years I prayed for speech to tell the thought 
That burned within my soul, with beauty fraught ; 
And though it thrilled my being with a spell, 
I could not speak it, had no power to tell. 
But in an hour when all was hushed and still, 
My soul woke up with strange and sudden thrill ; 
It seemed^ the voice of every greenwood tree, 
And rill, and star, and wave, conversed with me. 
And Nature stood revealed before me then. 
In grandeur that I cannot lose again. 
I caught new inspiration from the sod, 
And in its voice I heard the voice of God. 
And all the loved and lost seemed round me there. 
More beautiful than Earth, like Angels fair ; 
That all through nature, voices called my name, 
And these, my latent powers, obedient came, 
Touched, quickened by the spirit of the night, 
And beautified by angels of pure light. 
Something within me sudden rose and spoke, — 
The light of new creation o'er me broke ; 
And since tlmt day my powers leap up at will. 
And burn and quicken, all my being thrill. 
And when I stand before thee as to-night. 
All round me falls a mantle of delight, 
iVnd through my mind there comes a power divine, 
As though superior minds were blent with mine ; 
Until to all its depths my soul is stirred. 



THE POET. 123 

And must find utterance in its song or word. 

When song, the soul of Music comes to me, 

Until each key is tuned to harmony ; 

Then like a prisoned bird it bursts away, 

And with my song, I soar where all is day. 

Yet my poor speech is faint and weak, compared 

With that in coming time, which shall be shared 

By others, better fitted for the power 

That over me I feel bright Angels shower, 

And spirits of the beautiful and free, 

Through earth and heaven, that give in love to me.' 

This does but herald brighter things to come, 

Before whose beauty shall the earth sit dumb. 

Voice in the Audience. 
Dost think departed spirits give thee power ? 

Improvisatrice. 

I do. With Nature's voice that speaks through all, 

With my own powers that in me ever call, 

I do beheve to me by God are given. 

Strength, power and beauty, through the saints in 

Heaven ! 

[^Excitement in the audience. 

YOICE. 
Thou dost blaspheme ! 'Tis infidel, such thought ! 



124 POEMS. 

Improvisatrice. 

Then am I infidel ! For I have sought, 
E'en from a child, to win from Heaven a voice : 
And now I've heard, my friends, with me rejoice ! 
And learn that all at last may see and know 
Heaven's brighter joys, though living here below. 
God has not made the two worlds far apart : 
The loved shall meet ! — Oh ! tliank Him from thy 
heart ! 

[Indications of disturbance in the audience. 

[Improvisatrice, turning to her harp and lifting her eyes to 
heaven, chants with heseeching pathos and look of deep 

devotion, this Invocation. 
» 
Sweet darling of the mother's heart ! 

Look forth from out thy Heaven, 
And tell her with thy starry eyes 

Thy presence still is given. 
Look forth 1 and tell her God is great — 
That He has opened Heaven's gate ! 

Fair maiden ! fading in thy spring. 

Laid darkly in the tomb. 
Beam like a star from thy bright home. 

Or flower in summer bloom. 
Beam out ! and say that God is great, 
That He has opened Heaven's gate I 



THE POET. 125 

Loved mother ! passing into night 

To leave thy darkened hearth, — 
A shadow resting in thy place. 

For those thou left on earth, — 
Look down ! and say that God is great, 
That thou dost wait at Heaven's gate ! 

Young bride 1 grown sudden chill and cold 

To one who loved thee well, 
Who keeps thee treasured in his heart, 

Still binding with a spell. 
Burst forth ! and teach that God is great ! 
And pass t(f him through Heaven's gate ! 

\A hush in the audience ; many in tears. 

Imp ROViSAT RICE, reciting. 

God's truth has ever been unknown to earth, 
Because in way expected not its birth ; 
And gazing eyes, while looking for its light. 
Have seen it pass, and called it cloud of night. 
For this the true of earth have been defamed, 
Their teachings false and infidel proclaimed, 
While Error wears a robe of rainbow dyes, 
And men exalt her proudly to the skies. — 
But sometime Right shall take the place of Might, 
And romctime day be ushered in from night. 



126 POEMS. 

Great Nature's laws men do not understand, 
They break them wilful, trespass with high hand, 
Or through strange ignorance sink deep within 
The dismal gulf, the noisome cell of sin. 
And when a voice says, " Thou shouldst be more 

strong. 
Thus Nature speaks, and thou art in the wrong," 
Because 'tis something new, they have not known, 
They answer with a sneering, scoffing tone. — 
But sometime Right shall take the place of Might, 
And sometime day be ushered in from night. 

The soul that wins one gleam of light from heaven, 

Can bear the sneers that men have ever given. 

Can look unmoved upon a scornful face. 

Can list a scoffing tone with angel's grace. 

For in the soid a presence half divine. 

Keeps ever feeding at the inner shrine 

The light that burns with truth's immortal flame ; — 

All earth can never put that soul to shame. 

And sometime Right shall take the place of Might, 

And sometime day be ushered in from night. 

So calm, unmoved, I stand, with waves of joy 
Still sweeping through my soul : none can destroy 
The angel Peace that sits with radiant wings 
Within my soul, and ever sweetly sings. 



THE POET. 127 

No hand but mine can break the blessed spell, 
And send her forth, at other shrines to dwell. 
Oh human hearts ! Oh eyes now turned on mine ! 
Hast won her yet ? If not, oh, seek her shrine ! 
And then God's Right shall take the place of Might, 
And then God's Day be ushered in from Night. 

Man, rising in the audience. 

I am not satisfied with that one test! 
The subject was familiar. Well her l>est 
She might do with such theme. I give a new, 
And if she treats that just as well and true, 
Then may we well believe she has some power. — 
I offer this, to test her gift this hour : 
The Life of Perseus — his exploits and skill. 
Now let her answer, if she can and will ! 
\The Improvisatrice lifts her eijes, and in a moment, a 
strange, heautifid expression comes over her countenance, 
and her eyes kindled as if the gods themselves came to 
her aid; then raising her arm inajesticallg, she com- 
menced the recitation. 

Perseus. 

Son of a god. Great Jupiter, his sire, 
To Danae came in golden shower of fire, 
From his Olympus ; — Danae captive there, 
In brazen tower, and wild in her despair. 
Beneath her cruel father's iron rod. 



128 POEMS. 

Ah, wonder not she turned to meet the god, 

And gave him love for love. Her heart was riven : 

He lit her midnight with the hues of heaven. 

Beside his face all else was faint and dim, 

And she forgot the world, herself, in him. 

Thus Perseus was the offspring of their love ; . 

Though half a mortal, yet he caught, from Jove 

Olympian fire, the lightning of the sky. 

The power that carved heroic destiny. 

Yet when Acrisios^ his mother's sire, 

Knew of the child, it roused his utmost ire ; 

For he had shut her from the world away. 

Because the oracle had dared to say 

That by his grandson's hand should come his death, 

Determined in his day none should have breath 

To thwart his fate. But Destiny's strong hand. 

Relentless still in what the gods had planned, 

Burst every band that mortal power could place, 

And gave him one that bore a god's true grace. 

With angry heart he sent them out* to sea. 

When all its waves were sweeping angrily. 

In bark so frail he knew it would be driven 

Upon the rocks, and their cold forms be given 

To Neptune's caves, no more to visit earth ; — 

Destroying thus the danger of his birth. 

And ere an hour was past, their bark was tossed, 

And rent, and wrecked, and they had both been lost ; 



THE POET. 1-^9 

But when the Goddess of the Sea beheld 

Their forms, her heart with pity swelled. 

She sent the winds to rest within their caves, 

And Neptune for her sake hushed all the waves. 

She placed them tenderly in Ocean's arms. 

Who bore them gladly far from reach of harms. 

To that calm haven in the ^gean Sea, 

Where Seriphos' fair island laughed with glee 

To see the boy-god with his mother come. 

Safe from all danger there to find a home. 

The sad waves murmured when the voyage was o'er, 

That they must turn and leave them on the shore, 

Alone and desolate, and drenched and cold ; 

So twined the sea-weed in full many a fold 

And chain, about each pure, white form. 

To shield them from the coming, angry storm ; 

And decked with shining pearl and coral shell 

Their sandy bed, until protecting spell. 

And strange rich l^eauty all around them spread ; 

Then placed their richest gems upon their head. 

And as the sea, impatient at their stay. 

Called after them, could brook no more delay. 

Turned toward their home, yet sent their mournful 

tone 
Through all the isle, " Ah, leave them not alone 1 " 
Good Dictys heard, and left his nets to dry, 
And on them cast a kind and pitying eye, 
9 ^ 



130 POEMS. 

And took tliem from their cold but gorgeous bed, — 
While many a tear o'er their sad fate he shed, — 
And bore them to the King, who saw the cliild 
So beautiful, that on them both he smiled. 

As years passed on, young Perseus grew in power, 

And genius, prowess, till the fated hour 

He came the King remembered with regret. 

Grown jealous now; besides, he wished to get 

His mother, Danae's love, hard to be won ; 

Yet most he feared the anger of her son. 

So made a feast, requiring those who came, 

In honor to his royalty and fame, 

To each present him with a horse of power, — 

Impossible with Perseus that hour. 

Who, most unwilling to be 'neath the best, 

Thus Polydectes in his power addressed : 

" King ! I cannot bring the gift required ; 

Yet will I give what most thou hast desired — 

Medusa's head. I know full well, King, 

It is to thee a welcome offering ! " 

The King most readily gave glad consent. 

Because he knew if on such errand bent. 

He must- be slain. So bade him quickly go. 

And though his mother's tears in torrents flow, 

It needs must be. Young Perseus dried her tears, 

AVith hopes of sure success assuaged her fears, 



THE POET. 131 

Then quick made ready for his bloody part, — 

The gods assisting with their wondrous art. 

They knew his innocence, and lent their power 

To give protection in that dreadful hour ; 

For gods love most — 'tis said of old — 

To help the strong of heart, the pure and bold. 

Old Pluto came from his dominions dread, 

And placed a helmet on his fair young head. 

Which had the power to shield him from all e^^es. 

And Mercury gave him wings to thread the skies, 

A dagger made of diamonds, sharp as bright. 

To catch but not reflect the morning light ; 

While wise Minerva whom the cowards fear, 

(To whom the enterprise was doubly dear, 

Because Medusa, with the ocean -god. 

Her sanctuary had unbidden trod). 

Gave up her buckler to the hero brave. 

That with its mirrored depths would wholly save. 

And in her care he traversed air and sky. 

Until he came to those strange Gorgons nigh. 

Then did he need Minerva's wisdom, then 

Her courage, valor, for the bravest men, 

W^ith l)ut one look, by some deep power unknown. 

The monster Gorgons could convert to stone. 

He found them sleeping — the strange sisters three — 

And knew this hour must speak his destiny. 

He dared not look upon them as they slept. 



132 POEMS. 

For through their curling hair the serpents crept, 

That never closed their eyes ; at each slight somid 

Their awful hisses through the caves resound, 

That all the silence in strange terror breaks. 

And into consciousness the sleeper wakes. 

But with a firm, and still a dauntless heart. 

He falters not until achieved his part ; 

And on the shield his eyes he's but to place. 

To see it there — each monster's awful face. 

Though frightful, — e'en its image brings a chill, — 

He will not let it bend his iron will ; 

But without fear, without one thought of dread. 

He severs instantly Medusa's head. 

Then woke the sisters. Euryale sighed. 

And Stheino groaned, and in despair she cried, 

" What hand has wrought for us such utter woe ? 

From our dominion he shall never go. 

But stand a statue, desolate and lone. 

One look this moment shall transform to stone ! " 

The serpents hissed in concert with her word. 

Until each hair with serpent life was stirred ; 

The caverns echoed to their heart-felt groans. 

And sent them back in dismal, pitying tones. 

Until Minerva pitied so their pain. 

She made a flute to catch the mournful strain. 

And give it back ; that all the world might know 

In what sad strains the deepest grief can flow. 



THE POET. 133 

Then Euxyale, Stheiiio, sudden sprung 

(While writhing serpents round their faces clung) 

To find their foe, and with one look of hate, 

And vengeance dire, forever seal his fate. 

But Pluto's helmet hid him from their view. 

With Mercury's wings swift through the air he flew. 

Safe, safe from harm, and with him bore his prize — 

Like meteor flashing through the summer skies — 

Medusa's head ; while from each gaping vein. 

The life-blood flowed as flows the sumnaer rain ; 

And where it touched the soil a serpent sprung, 

And round the sands of Lybia's deserts clung, 

To perish not ; but through all coming time, 

To fill with poisonous breath the sandy clime. 

Still on he swept, till, weary of his flight, 

Amid the shadows of approaching night, 

He passed King Atla*^' palace where he craved 

His hospitality, for he had braved 

Great perils, and his spirit needed rest. 

The King refnsed to welcome such a guest. 

Because he claimed himself a son of Jove, 

And Oracle* had said that one would prove 

His foe, and rob him of his wealth and power ; 

So gave nor food, nor rest, nor home, that hour. 

And even songht to kill, until at length. 

When Perseus saw his foe had greatest strength, 

He held Medusa's head before his eyes : 



134 POEMS. 

One look ! — then speech, expression, action, dies, 

And monster-like he grows, until he stands 

A mountain huge and high in Afric's lands. 

Yes, stands there yet, — the mount still bears his 

name, — 
A monument to cast intensest shame 
On those who turn the sons of God away, 
And scorn and fear His truths the present day. 

When morning came with bright and golden ray, 

Young Perseus took again his homeward way 

O'er Lybia's plains, until he neared the coast 

Of Ethiopia, and he felt the boast 

Of such exploit would Polydectes win. 

To take him back to favor once again. 

When lo ! there met his eye a thrilling sight 

That froze his veins with horror and affright: 

A maiden, beautiful as morn's first beam. 

Ay, fairer than a poet's wildest dream. 

Stood, with the sunlight on her suffering face. 

The very image of the purest grace, 

Yet chained, chained to a rock, and fi^m the sea — 

While both her parents stood in misery. 

Her mother, wringing in her wild despair 

Her snowy hands, and pouring on the air 

Shriek after shriek, with not one power to save — 

A monster rose, and cleft tiie foaming wave 



THE POET. 135 

With his dread power, as he approached in wrath, 

While breakers roared around his fearful path. 

Just ready now to seize, devour his prey, 

When, swift as sunbeam from the realms of day, 

Down swept the hero. With one deadly blow 

He laid the monster in his heart's blood low; 

Then turned with tender hand and tone. 

And rent the chains from her, the fair unknown, 

And raised her fainting from the damp, cold earth, 

While love from pity kindled into birth. 

And when her parents knelt in fervent prayer. 

And blessed him, rising from their dark despair. 

Then, as the maiden silent by him stood, 

Robed in the mantle of her gratitude. 

That found no utterance save in blissful tears, — 

Each one that fell to him yet more endears, — 

Unable longer to conceal his love. 

His eager thoughts that still to her would rove, 

He spoke : " I love this maiden ! If my bride. 

No evil shall again her life betide ; 

I'd guard her in my heart by night or day, 

Within my.-home in regions far away. 

Let not my heart's best boon be now denied ; 

Say but these words, ' That she shall be my bride.' '" 

Then answered Cepheus, " It is better so. 

That with her brave deliverer she should go 

From danger threatening, lest she yet be slain ; 



136 POEMS. 

That were indeed to us far deeper pain.'* 

Then Perseus said, " Whence came this cause of 

grief, 
From which, by chance, my hand has brought reUef ?-^' 
" I caused it, I," said Cassiopeia then ; 
<•<■ For vainly boasting once and then again, 
That she was fairer in her beauty's light. 
Than were old Nereus' daughters, thougli so bright. 
There came vile plagues in answer to my word, 
Of which the earth before has never heard. 
Until the people, in their fear and dread, 
Consulted oracles that sternly said. 
The plagues should haunt us, ever linger by. 
Until this death Andromeda should die. 
The angry god had chained her to this rock. 
To wait and meet in terror such a shock ; 
But thou hast come and dashed this bitter cup 
From her dear lips ; we cheerful give her up." 
Then Perseus bent his eye upon the maid. 
And with love's own rich tone he softly said, 
" Wilt go with me ? thou art my destiny." 
She only lifted up her tear-dimmed eye 
To meet his own, then drop beneath its glow : 
No need of words, the look best said, " I go." 
" My brother Phineus has sought to wed 
Andromeda," then Cepheus quickly said ; 
" He might assail thy life, and thou be slain, 



THE POET. 137 

So brave and good, my daughter chained again !" 
" Ah, never fear," said Perseus boldly then, 
" I have a power that triumphs o'er all men — 
Medusa's head ; one look transforms to stone ; 
And when I wed thy daughter, if there's one 
That dares assail, I have but this to show. 
And worse than slain he lies. I let thee know 
This fact, that thou may'st tell thy friends to shun 
The dreadful sight ; its work is surely done." 
Yet at the wedding feast the brother came. 
From Perseus' hands his promised bride to claim. 
And with his friends attacked the bridegroom there, 
Who made a sign, then showed Medusa fair. 
And each a statue turned, and kept his place, 
With awful look of horror on his face, 
To gaze on vacancy, cold, still, alone. 
While Perseus claimed and bore away his own. 

Ai-rived at Seriphos, how Danae met 

Her hero-son ! all passed her wild regret ; 

For fame had wreathed her laurels round his brow, 

So nobly was fulfilled his earnest vovv^ 

And with him came, fair as the morning star 

That sends its beams from some bright world a far. 

His cherished bride ; her hfe seemed bright once 

more, 
And in her heart she said, '' My griefs are o'er." 



138 POEMS. 

But Polydectes, still more jealous grown 

Of Perseus' power, because so widely known, 

Now sought his life ; till Perseus w^as compelled 

(Though with the deepest pain his bosom swelled) 

To show Medusa's head, and with its shock 

Old Polydectes then became a rock. 

And Dictys, who. had saved them at the first, 

And Danae after, from a fate accurst, 

Was placed upon his throne by Perseus' power. 

And all three turned and blessed him in that hour. 

Then turning from his labors to find rest, 

He drew his bride still closer to his breast, 

Gave back his wings to Mercury again. 

His helmet sent to Pluto's world of pain ; 

Then to Minerva for the power she shed. 

Upon her ^gis placed tlie Gorgon's head. 

And in the bliss he found within his home. 

Resolved no more from its loved shrine to roam. 

HI 
But soon Acrisios from off his throne 

Was hurled, whose brother claimed it as his own ; 

And with true magnanimity of heart. 

Brave Perseus chose to act a noble part : 

(For though in childhood cast upon the wave 

To perish, vengeance lives not with the brave.) 

And hastening back to Argolis, he threw 

His power against foul Proetus, — him he slew ; 

And gave Acrisios again his crown. 



THE POE^. 139 

His throne, from whence he'd cast the tyrant down. 
Until the king, his grandsire, wept for shame, 
And even more, that Perseus would not blame ; 
With joy and gratitude acknowledged then 
His Danae's son with pride before all men. 

Fain would we let the hero rest ; ]3ut now 
The Fates must be fulfilled ; they break no vow. 
So when one day performing some great feat 
Of wondrous skill (with him none could compete), 
The king, with admiration of his power. 
Beguiled in happiness the passing hour ; 
As if some evil demon aimed the blow. 
Some Fury prompted where the quoit should go, 
It struck Acrisios upon his -head ; 
At Perseus' feet he fell, alas ! was dead ; 
That thus the oracle in truth might stand, 
"That he should die by his own grandson's hand." 
"In vain was Perseus' grief, his anguish vain. 
He could not bring him back to life again ; 
And moarning o'er his grandsire's tragic end. 
Could hardly bear another hour to spend 
At Argos ; hoping sooner to forget 
The thought that filled his soul with such regret, 
The deed to his true heart so half like guilt. 
The city of Mycena? then he built ; 
And ceased from mingling more in scenes of strife, 



140 * POEMS. 

But with Andromeda lie spent his hfe. 

And from their sons came Hercules ; for fate 

Designed that e'en his offspring should be gi'eat. 

And even in his death he could not die ; 

For those who loved him placed him in the sky, 

With famed Medusa's head still in his hand, 

And close beside him there his household band, 

As constellations bright, with shining star 

To beam for wandering feet from homes afar : 

King Cepheus with liis sceptre stretched in air. 

And Cassiopeia with her golden chair, 

Andromeda still chained, while Perseus nigh. 

Seems hastening to her rescue through the sky. 

And though 'tis but a myth in classic lore 

Of Greece, coined in the ages gone before. 

Yet under all its symbols, strange, absurd. 

There runs through every allegoric word 

A vein of truth, a beauty and a thought, 

To bless the world when once that truth is caught. 

He sprung through force combined of earth and 

heaven, 
A mortal's heart, a God's true valor given. 
Thus one true mind that's caught from heaven its 

fire. 
Can therefore to its greatest powers aspire. 
May thus win helmet, shield, and even wings, 
And smite that Gorgon where each serpent clings ; 



THE POET. 141 

Though Error is its modern name, one blow 

From such an arm shall lay it sudden low. 

It is because to few such power is given, 

To few that Zeus comes down in fire from heaven, 

That still Medusa lives, defies our power, 

And can transform to worse than stone, this hour. 

For his great valor passed he to the sky ; 

The ancients could not bear to see him die ; 

And as mid-heaven he holds Medusa's head. 

The Galaxy aroimd his pathway spread, 

So bright and vivid in its richest grace. 

While gleams a nebula to light his face ; 

And eight beside, the constellation bears, — 

Terrestial light of heaven, at least, he shares. 

So shall the soul pass into yonder sky. 

That labors for the growth of purity, 

With angels of his household, gleaming bright. 

To share with him its stars, its power, its light ; 

To live forever, shining like the star 

On earth's dark night, from its pure world afar ; — 

Celestial light to gild its pathway now, 

And its own deeds a halo round the brow. 

Old heroes, martyrs, saints, can never die : 

Not always visible to naked eye, 

Yet not the less the constellations burn, 

Though mortal eyes to see them may not turn. 

If souls could find a telescopic power. 



142 POEMS. 

They'd see them gleam through lieaven this very hour.. 

But Herschels of the present day men hate, 

Because they've power to see when bid to wait ; 

And if their eye detects a planet clear, 

Before unknown, in God's celestial sphere. 

And name it Truth, and number with the rest, 

And feel themselves in this new knowledge blest, 

The rest refuse to look, and call it vain. 

And bid them act Galileo again. 

But like the constellations, when the clouds 

Have wrapped them in their darkest midnight 

shrouds. 

They gleam as brightly on the other side. 

And gild those clouds that their best power defied. 

So truth shall gild old error's clouds of night, 

Disperse her mists and shades with golden light ; 

And known at last shall be God's great unknown. 

And man unshamed shall claim it as his own. 

J* 

The truths of God I've found, till then I'll speak, 
Though small my power, and though, alas ! so weak; 
And like the dew upon earth's flowers I'll lie. 
Till God's great sun exhales me to the sky. 

\_She ceased speaking, while her whole attitude and e^^pres- 
sion were an embodiment of her last words ; and as she 
remained thus, many who listened almost involuntarily 
expected to see her jioat exhaled in a mist from their 
sight. Then 'suddenly turning to her harp, she softly 
touched its strings and sang. 



THE POET. 143 

Sweet Peace ! descend with noiseless wing, 

And seek each human breast, 
And through the night in sweetness sing, 

And soothe to quiet rest ! 

Smooth every aching brow of pain, 

Till bi^y thought shall sleep. 
Till morning light shall come again. 

Keep thou thy vigil, keep ! 

Good-night, eyes that look on mine ! 

Hope's golden dreams for thee : 
May morning's hour bring joy to thine. 

As daybreak to the sea. 

Good-night I My soul pours out its prayer, 

That Heaven's eternal light 
May be tlie mantle thou shalt wear. 

Good-night, good-night, good-night ! 

\As the last 7iotes of the song died away, the Improvisa 
trice glided through the door of the ante-room and dis- 
appeared. The audience, after a moment's breathless 
silence, rise to leave the hall. 

Mr. Seymour. 

Ida ! in tears ? I cannot blame thee, child ; 
Thou'rt not the only one her words beguiled. 
I quite forgot myself in her strange power. 
And tlioudit Jove came again in shower of fire. 



144 POEMS 



Bruce. 



The words, "delightful," "wonderful," I hear; 
They've half forgot she stepped from woman's 

sphere ; 
The magic of her words is on them now, 
To-morrow, with a thoughtful, captioT\^ brow, 
They'll find excuses for this glow of light. 
And some, no doubt, can do it here to-night. 
Hark ! there's our friend the Pharisee once more. 
Let's see what came to him from out this store ! 

Clergy M. AN. 

I did believe this all a sham ! She might, 

Perhaps, have said each word she did to-night, 

Without much effort, — needed slight enough ; 

I never heard from lips more t];ashy stuff, — 

Except the last. Unless he hit a theme 

She'd given out, it truly would not seem 

She could compose so readily each part. 

Because, besides her skill in this new art. 

It would require a memory of names. 

And facts, and skill that no one ever claims. 

And I've no longer doubt she gets her power 

From the Arch-Fiend ; he knows how best to shower 

His gifts, to lure, entrap, and to beguile 

The hearts of men with all that's vile, 

In guise of truth and virtue, as to-night, — 



THE POET. 145 

When once tliey'i-e cliLiined, he'll burst to sight. 
I've heard enough. There arc no words too strong, 
With which to warn my people of this wrong. 
It must be stopped ! She'll make to vice a slave 
Faster than I the souls of men can save ! 

Middle-Aged G-entleinian. 

Why so ? With all the fiends, it seems to me 
She .ought to be less strong than God in thee ! 

Clergyman. 
True, true, but God sometimes permits such things : 
And men hear best if but a siren sings. 

Stranger. 
Well, let them sing ! for such Circe as that, 
I must confess, had chained me where I sat ; 
And I'm not conscious, even in the least, 
That I the more bear likeness of the beast. 
I think this modern Circe'll hardly charm 
One human heart to aught that can be harm. 
I never had my thoughts so raised to heaven, 
Or such divine and noble impulse given. 
To higher life or purer trust in God. 

Stranger Lady, passing Mr. Seytnoufs group. 

I thought her dress looked really very odd ! 
Too plain. 1 think her taste is bad to wear 

10 



146 POEMS. 

No ornaments, and plainly dress her hair. 

She must be low, — so very little style ! 

And then her collar, who could help but smile ? 

Gentleman. 
Now I admired her dress, — so little show ; 
But I forgot it all in that strange glow 
That lit her features when she turned to sing. 
To-morrow night, Louisa I shall bring ! 

Lady. 

Just like you, Ned ! But what an ugly face ! 
I can't perceive where you beheld the grace. 

Two Ladies pass as they leave the hall, talking. 

So much of comfort, joy, I have not heard, 
As came to-night in that song's every word, 
Since darling Minnie died. It seemed the spot 
Was hallowed with her presence, — was it not ? 
Oh, could I see her, talk with her of this, 
'Twould be such rest, and give me such a bliss ! 

• Id A. 
How can the world speak coldly of a voice 
That bids the mourner's heart like hers, rejoice ; 
And with a look more light, condemn as naught 
What seems to me must be from heaven caught ? 
Cold words and vain, grate harshly on my ear, 



THE POET. 147 

Just tuned to sounib from some far purer sphere. 

Like the last speaker, how I wish to see 

And hear her talk ! Now, father, can't it be ? 

It might be done with ease, through Mr. Bell, 

Her friend, I'm sure, because you know him welh 

I should not dare to talk myself, but then, 

To hear her once converse were joy again. 

Mr. Seymour. 

Oh, I'll arrange it, never fear for me ! 
Because, forsooth, I wish-myself to see 
This gifted woman ; better comprehend 
This new revealment, its true object, end. 

Mrs. Seymour. 

I cannot tell when all my soul has stirred. 
As here to-night, with every thrilling word. 
I wish to see her, too. The world may frown ; 
Thou knowest I'm not afraid of '' Mrs. Brown ! *' 

Bruce, as they pass from the hall to the street. 

How sweetly, purely, shines the moon to-night, 

While over all like mantle falls her light ! 

It seems like fairy-scene ; and such a hush 

And stillness, after all this noisy rush 

Of feet, I feel transported to a scene 

Like that whence came the gift of this Song-Queen. 



148 POEMS. 

How can the hearts, so full of lofty pride, 
And vain conceits, that all her powers deride, 
Step forth into this shower of silver spray, 
And not have pride and scorn all swept away! 
Yet, if God's truth appeals to them in vain, 
The sunlight of the spheres, that shines so plain, 
The fairy moonbeam with its gentler art. 
Can have no power to find their darkened heart. 
See, Ida, how that star attends the moon ! 
So thou art following in her steps so soon, 
To brighten still upon the brow of night. 
And pour like her o'er other hearts thy light. 



SCENE IV. 

Evening. Mr. Seymour's back parlor. Bruce and Ida seated on a sofa, read 
ing from a manuscript. 

Bruce, laying doivn the vianuscript. 

'Tis but a year since first I knew thy power, 
Just then in bud, and now it blooms a flower 
In this thy work. I'm proud to know it thine ; 
For in it thoughts of real beauty shine. 
'Tis worthy publication. Let thy name 
Go with it ; thou hast sure no cause of shame. 
I think the secret lias been kept too long, 
Now tell thy parents, Ida. This is wrong. 

Ida. 

I know ; but I have wished my work to hide 
From even them, until my best I've tried, 
And something worthy their approval given ; 
And I have earnestly and hourly striven, 
Because in this, as other things, my lieart 
Yearns in their sympathy to have its part. 
Oh, I have worked so long to win their smile, 
Still hoping, trusting, waiting all the while. 
And now I'll leave thy judgment to decide 

149 



150 POEMS. 

If this has aught to give a moment's pride. 
The little good that seemed within its leaves, 
Has vanished, thinking how the world receives 
Ml bvit the best the poet ever gives, 
And then sometimes approves jiot wliile he lives. 
Besides, Miss Raymond's last, you know, has wrung 
Praise even from the lips of those who clung 
To tliat strange wish to do her talents wrong ; — 
She triumphs now ; she has not waited long. 
How can my glowworm's spark expect to find, 
Beside her own, the notice of one mind ? 

Bruc e. 
Her work is very fine. And, by the way, 
I wish to read (I think I heard thee say 
Thou hadst not read the whole) the sweetest thing 
I yet have known her write or speak or sing. 
But not till thou hast promised I may show 
This to thy parents. 'Tis their time to know. 

Ida. 
Well, as thou wilt ! If fitting that I should, 
I humbly hope they'll find within it good ! 

\_Enter Mr. Seymour. 

Mr. Seyriour. 
Wrapped up in musty manuscripts, I see ! 
They're hieroglypliics, I suppose, to me. 



THE POET. 151 



Bruce. 



At least, they may not always thus remain, 
Although long time in mystery they've lain. 

Mr. Seyimour. 

Where is thy mother, Ida? —Ah, I hear 

Her well-known step ; I thought she must be near 

\_Enter 3Irs. Seymour. 
Another poem from thy favorite, see ! . 
I think it good. — Who can the author be ? 
Ida, I think 'tis time thou hadst begun 
To try thy skill — why hast thou never done ? 
A year ago. Miss Raymond had such power, 
I thought she would transform thee in an liour ; 
And now here comes another half as bright. 
And yet thy muse still lingers out of sight. 

Bruce. 

Please read the poem ! That perhaps may wake 
Her sleeping powers, and this long silence break. 

Mr. Set bi our, smiling. 

I will indeed ; for who of us can tell. 
With my good reading, what might be its spell ? 

\_Reads. 



152 POEMS. 

COME AGAIN. 

BY CORA LEE. 

The billows moan upon the shore, 

In never-endmg pain, 
They sigh and weep forevermore, 

" Come again, come again." 

A maiden stands beside the sea, 

Pouring her tears like rain, 
And this her wail of agony : 

" Come again, come again." 

She watched a brave ship speed away 
With white sails o'er the main. 

Bearing her heart one summer day ; — 
'Twill never come again. 

The summers come, the summers go. 
She moans the same sad strain. 

While with the waves her tear-drops flow,- 
" Come again, come again." 

And evermore the rolling wave 

POurs out its deep refrain, 
With her, bewaihng still the brave, — 

" Come again, come again." 

A mourner stands on Life's bleak shore, 
Calling in vain, in vain. 



THE POET. 153 

Upon the loved ones gone before, 
" Come again, come again." 

Time's billows beat upon the coast 

Where she must still remain, 
With sullen murmur, tempest tost, 
' " They will not come again." 

The summers come, the summers go, 
• With her the same sad strain. 
While with Time's waves her tear-drops flow,— 
" Come again, come again." 

The Angels heard lier bitter grief. 

And sorrowing o'er her pain. 
They sung this song to give relief : 

'' The loved shall come again." 

She raised her eyes from earth to heaven. 

And, with this thrilling strain, 
She saw her loved by whom 'twas given — 

" We come, we come again." 

Bruce. 
If thou wilt promise to forgive this sprite, 
I'll tell thee now that Ida did indite 
These poems ; but disguising her own name 
Through fears. Now do not therefore blame. 
She w^ished for something worthy of her pen, 
And waited for thy sympathy till then. 



154 ' POEMS. 

Mr. and Mrs. S e y m o u r , m one breath. 
Does Ida write these poems that we love ? 

Bruce. 
Her burning, tearful face I think will prove. 

Mr. and Mrs. Seymour, embracing her. 
My child, my child, how couldst thou thus deceive ? 

Id A . 

Oh, my dear parents ! hear me and believe, 
'Twas but because I could not bear to tell 
One thought, until I came to do it well ; 
Though I have pined for one approving word, 
Which in disguise sometimes I've gladly heard. 
But I have finished something just to-day, 
Which Henry has the want of taste to say, 
He thinks is good, and so I let him speak. 

Mr. Seymour. 
This gives me much of joy. Perhaps I'm weak, 
But I have always yearned to see this child, 
On which our warmest love has ever, smiled. 
Pursue a useful life, with cultured mind : — 
In this beginning much of hope I find. 
But what is this just finished — let me know ? 
No more refuse, my child, thy works to show. 



THE POET. 155 



Ida. 



Oh, no indeed ! It pays for all my sighs, 
And fears, that 'tis to thee such glad surprise. 

Bruce . 

Here is the manuscript. I think it ought, 
Before the world, with her own name be brought. 
I'll read some parts, then for thyself thou'lt see. 
If this, thy daughter, speaks of hope to thee. 

\_Reads several lengthy extracts. 

Mr. Seyimour. 

I'm not ashamed that child of mine should write 
A thing like that, — it gives me joy to-night. 

\_Dra.ws her to him affectionately. 
Thou naughty girl ! to keep this all from me. 
I shall suspect some other mystery. 
If this's the Avay thy confidence is kept ; 
I wonder how I could so long have slept. 

Mrs. Seymour. 

How could we think ? for Ida's heart and eyes 
Were always clear to us as summer skies. 

Id A . 

Forgive me this ! I promise ne'er again, 
In any mystery long to remain. 



156 POEMS. 



Mrs. Seymour. 



But I'm^ not ready yet to meet our guest ; 
I must make haste. — My darling, be thou blest ! 

\_Retires. 

Mr. Seymour. 

But Ida, tell me when thou first began. 
And how, to carry out this secret plan ? 

Ida. 

Two years ago, I first began to write, 

But no one knew the fact, until the night 

That Henry heard Miss Raymond sing at first — 

The thought of her great powers my silence burst. 

I told him all, Ijecause I saw 'twas vain 

(For some way, all unknown, he caught the strain,) 

To play concealment, and he promised then 

To aid mo in the efforts with my pen. 

And well and truly has lie kept his word, 

I owe him much, for each has been referred 

To his good taste and judgment, ere I gave 

The little waif to float upon the wave. 

And then Miss Raymond has been such a friend, 

So always ready every aid to lend. 

To make suggestions, criticise witli care. 

And praise my best — when I would half despair — 

Without a jealous thought. It seems her aim. 



THE POET. 157 

To make me worthy as herself, of fame ; 

So unlike many, wlio, with envious eye, 

Can bear to see no other soaring high. 

She kept my secret faithfully the while, 

Though she would sometimes shake her head and 

smile. 
And scold me tor my foolish dread and fear, 
But she shall know to-night ; — she'll soon be here. 

M R . S E Y IM u R . 
I always thought she had a noble mind — 
Such lofty souls we do not often find ; 
But now I prize her higher still. She's done 
What few would do for thee, my darling one ! 
And I will tell her how my lieart is stirred 
By acts of hers, that through thy lips I've heard. 
On this, my child, thou surely canst depend, 
That while I live, she never wants a friend ! 

\_ReJapses into thought. 

Bruce. 

There's still an hour before she comes. Not late. 
Let's read her poem — why not — while we wait ? 

Ida. 
Yes, I remember thou wert now to read ; 
There's ^ery little urging that I need. 

[ TJiey pass to the library. 



158 POEMS. 

Ah, here's the book! I iiovcr shall forget 

The first slie wrote, or how her face I met. 

It seems my soul from hers caught sudden fire, 

And strength that would attain mj long desire. 

And then her hand has helped to feed the flame, 

With thine ; I hardly think I've right to claim 

Much merit for my works, should any live, 

So much I caught the light each mind could give. 

Bruce. 

Why, every mind has deepest inspiration given, 
When it approaches something nearest heaven. 
And such a mind as hers is like the sun, 
That sheds its rays — though swift its course may 

run — 
To fall on others ; they to catch the light, 
. As earth absorbs the sun's, and leaves her night. 
And should the earth the radiant sunbeams spurn. 
While still for light and power it ever yearns. 
And say, " I dare not of another take. 
For all my light within me must awake ? " 
Ah no ! for God designed that sun to earth 
Should send its beams, before the flowers have birth. 
So mind with mind must meet and deeply blend, 
Each imto each its inspiration lend, 
Before the strongest powers to life awake. 
And through the soul the beams of morning break. 



THE POET. 159 

Thou art no copyist. If tliroiigh her light, 
Some richer truths came forth to meet thy sight, 
She has fulfillpd her mission unto thee, 
And thou thine own ; and as for aught in me 
That could inspire thy soul, would it were so ; 
It were such happiness that tliought to know. 
But I am prosy. Let me read thee here 
What gives my soul such mingled hope and fear. 

Bruce, reading.. 

And yet there was one true and noble soul. 
To whom she seemed for all his life the goal, — 
One who had gazed upon her from afar. 
As unapproachable as summer star 
Li its own azure ; glowing with delight. 
And shining for itself, and not his night. 
Too fair a flower for his strong hand to take, 
Too soft a harp for his rude couch to wake. . 

\Bruce continues to read a lengthy extract from the hook, 
descriptive of the progress of this attachment, that re- 
• veals points of resemblance to his oum for Ida, and 

which, after mamj doubts in the yninds of each, proves 
at last to be mutual. By this little artifice, he delicate- 
ly prepares the way for a declaration of his love to Ida 

[Note. — After some Jiesitatiou, it was decided, while the book was 
going through the press, to omit here several pages found in the author's 
manuscript, in order to make room in the volume for several short poems, 
just brought to the notice of the Editor.] 



160 POEMS. 

Bruce, dropping the book. 

Oil Ida ! could I ever win from thine, 

Thine eyes or lips, such answering love to mine, 

Then would my only wish on earth be given, 

I would not ask for more this side of heaven. 

Oh, I have loved thee long, — so very long. 

With love, true, earnest, thrilling, deep as strong! 

Nay, turn not from me those dear eyes away, — 

I could not live without their cheering ray. 

And this dear hand, oh, let it rest in mine 

One moment, darling, with its touch divine ! 

And let me tell thee, ere thou dost decide, 

How long I've prayed to win thee for my bride ; 

Since that lirst hour I met thy earnest look. 

Unclasped for me a new and thrilling book. 

I won thy father, ere I dared to speak 

To thee, or thought of thine had dared to seek. 

He will entrust thee to my love and care. 

Oh, Ida ! doom me not to feel despair I 

At least, say thou wilt strive to win for me 

One thought of love; — my thoughts are all of thee 4 

[^She buries Iter face in her ha?ids. 

Continues., sadly. 
And is there not one hope that thou canst give ? 
Ah, then how worthless i$ the thought to live ! 
Dost weep ? Ah, do not ! Let my hopes be vain — 



THE POET. 



161 



^Tis better than to give thy spirit pain. 
Now let me dry those tears, my happiness 
Shall be to know that joys thy soul shall bless. 
Ah, give me but one kiss to keep for aye, 
When all my worshipped dreams are torn away ! 
iHe draws her gently toward him. She turns suddenly, and 
throws herself into his arms. 

Bruce, ivith deep and thrilling' emotion. 

Speak, Ida ! tell me, is there hope for me, 

Who through these years have bent to worship thee ? 

Ida. 

I did not think, I did not even dream 

Of this ; I only cauglit afar some gleam, 

And thought Miss IRaymond long thy heart had kept ; 

And if sometimes mine woke from where it slept, 

I crushed it back ; I thought it all in vain ; 

I would not listen to its voice of pain. 

I am so young in life, in thought, while thou 

Hast such maturity on mind and brow. 

How could a wayward, thoughtless child like me 

Be aught to fill the heart of oue like thee ? 

Bruce. 

First, Ida, tell me that thy heart does love 
Enough to give me time my own to prove 1 
11 



162 POEMS. 

First tell me, darling, that thou wilt be mine, — 
Mine ever, as I must be wholly thine ! 

Ida . 

I love thee more than any one beside ; 
But I, so young, how could I be thy bride ? 

Bruce. 

But thou shalt wait until thy heart shall say 
With cheerfulness, the words for which I pray. 
If I could know that thou wilt sometime bless, 
Ida, I'd wait so long that happiness ! 
Ah, give me now thy promise with this kiss. 
Enough! it comes to me, that word of bliss. 
How can I love thee, dost thou say, so young ? 
I cannot tell; only my heart has sung 
But this oije song since first I saw thine eye : 
" The morning breaks upon my darkened sky." 
And, oh, to think that thou wilt be my bride, 
And beam the day-star ever at my side. 
That over me shall bend thy loving eye, 
As clear and deep as is the summer sky, 
That side by side, ay, ever hand in hand. 
We'll journey toward the sunny, summer land, 
Fills all my soul with such a peace and rest ; 
For all my wandering, now I'm more than blest. 

[^Pauses, 



THE POET. 1G3 

I hear Miss Raymond's voice. Though I would 

keep 
Thee longer by my side, the fountains deep 
Within my soul are strangely, wildly stirred 
By those sweet tones from her, my singing-bird ! 
And I must let thee go, to calm thy thought, 
And find the happiness in her thou sought. 
But ere we sleep to-night, thou shalt be pressed 
ylJnta thy sire's, thy mother's loving breast. 
And feel their blessing on our pure love shed, 
Descending in such peace upon thy head. 
I'll take a turn or two upon the grounds, 
And when my usual outer calm I've found, 
I'll join thy group, with heart so full of bliss, 
To cast the sunshine it has caught in this. 

\_Embvaces her and passes out, while in a feiv minutes after 
she enters the parlor. 

Miss Raymond. 

Ida, as rosy as another Eve 

Thou look'st to-night ! In truth, I do believe 

Thou has just bathed anew in some fair fount, 

Or made a journey to Parnassus' mount. 

I see the Muse reflected in thine eye. 

Or something surely caught from some fair sky. 

No wonder, for thy secret's out at last, 

The god of silence can no longer cast 



164 P0B31S. 

His mantle round thy lips ; and now 'tis thine, — 
The sympathy for which tliy soul must pine. 
Thy father has just told me his surprise : 
I hope 'tis not his last before he dies. 
'Tis better so. Now welcome to' the field ! 
And I expect before thy power to yield ! 

Ida, laughmg. 

Ah, never fear ! for I can only glean • ^ 

Along the path where thou hast reaper been ! 

MissRaymond. 

Just hear the child ! But we shall* see, will see, 

Not which will win the laurels, thou or me, 

But which shall scatter best Truth's real seed, 

Which most inspire to do the noblest deed. 

Which strews the sunlight brightest on their path, 

Which best dispels the gloomy clouds of wrath. 

Which lives the truest life, with what is given. 

Which marks with her own steps best path to heaven. 

Ah, Mr. Seymour, how I often feel. 

When all my heart goes out for others' weal, 

What great responsibility must rest 

On all by any gift of God so blest ; 

Sometimes can hardly bear the thought to live, 

When I so little unto others give. 

I've tried to do my best, and yet how small, 



THE POET. 165 

Compared with those bright gifts that round me fall. 

I cannot catch them up, and give them clear. 

In my own action, as in their bright sphere. 

It makes me sad sometimes to think ; and yet 

I will not waste my time in vain regret. 

Life is a school. To-day I'll try my best, 

To-morrow try again, — so only blest. 

But where is Mr. Bruce to-night ? I thought 

To see him here ; indeed, I'm sure I ought. 

I've business of importance to transact, 

And to none else can I divulge the fact, 

Unless he comes.— 

Mr. Seymour. 

I hear him coming now, — 
So calm thy mind at once, and clear thy brow. 
Don't keep us long in this suspense, I pray, 
I'm dying now with what thou hast to say ! 

\Enter Bruce. 

Bruce. 

Good eve. Miss Raymond ! 'Tis a real treat, 
Once more in quiet place thy face to meet. 
I feared to see thee looking pale and thin ; 
I'm thankful 'tis not so. How hast thou been ? 



166 POEMS. 

MissRaymond. 

Oh, much as usual ! If I were but strong, 
dad half the power that unto men belong, 
To aid in carrying out my every plan, 
I'd like it well. But then, I'm not a man, 
' And so am weak ; yet sometimes one turns friend, 
And then upon their strength I can depend ; 
And so I work. Now I've conspiracy 
Well laid, to get a little help from thee. 

Bruce. 
Well, name thy wish ! I know but to obey ! 
A woman first or last will have her way. 

Miss Raymond. 

'Tis simply this : I wish, on Oxford street. 
To open some good place, where all may meet 
Of those poor creatures who are sunk in sin, 
And see if something cannot tempt them in. 
To hear such words as haply may unbind 
The chains from here and there a suffering mind, 
And win them back once more to light and truth, 
And to the better feelings of their youth. 
I want to get some good and noble souls. 
Whose every heart-chord charity controls. 
To meet and talk to them of all that's right 
And noble in the spirit's truest siglit ; 



THE POET. 167 

And I will go and improvise in song, 

And speak to them of all their sin and wrong, 

And give such words as come to me each hour. 

May not there .be a hidden, latent power, 

A gift spontaneous like my own might wake, 

And burst the chains no other hand can break ? 

So much of real piiy might be given, 

'Twould tempt some feet to turn again to heaven. 

To save but one such suffering Magdalen, 

Were better than applause from tongue or pen ; 

For that will pass away in coming hour, 

But such freed souls shall ever grow hi power, 

Still brighter through the years, and still more free, 

A light for others through eternity. 

Besides my duties, writing, speaking, all, 

I could meet once a week. If I could call 

A dozen good and noble souls like thine, 

To help in such a work, 'twould be divine. 

B R tx c E . 

I like it much ; and I for one will do 

All in my power to help this purpose through. 

Mr. Set 31 our. 

And I ! I think it worthy of a saint, 

To win such souls, and hush their sad complaint ! 



168 POEMS 



Ida . 



There's naught that I can do, except to go 
And cheer thee with my eyes, when there shall flow 
The words I know full well to them" will come, 
To wake the memory of their childhood home. 

MissHaymond. 

I'm truly glad my project takes so well. 

Of course it meets the mind of Mr. Bell, 

And several others. We shall soon begin 

This work, and do our best to try to win. 

We can but fail. But then we'll try again; 

The noble only seems to fail with men. 

God takes it up, and bears it onward still ; 

We cannot fail when we but do his will. 

But who of us shall ever dare expect 

To do great good, beghming with effect, 

When witli the men of wealth, of power, and fame, 

And even civil power, oft lies the blame ? 

Night after night, in halls where gathering meet 

To hear me now, the fashion, the elite, 

I see such brows that wear the mark of Cain, 

So many a soul that cannot hide its stain 

From eyes intuitive ; that through the day, 

At God's or Mammon's altar kneel to pray ; 

Yet, worse than bandit, at the midnight hour, 

Rob virtue, innocence, of all it? power, 



THE POET. 169 

Then turn, and be the hypocrite once more, 
And worship God as ardent as before. 
'Tis terrible to see the tempted fall, 
While God's own angels all unjieard may call ; 
Their hours" of suffering must be sharp and stern ; — 
'' The way of the transgi-essor s hard," they learn. 
But there's no law with such avenging power 
To grasp their souls, as liis, who, in that hour 
Has been the tempter to their sin and woe, — 
There is a Law that will not let him go. 
He may escape the justice of the earth, 
And men mistake his real guilt for worth ; 
Or through his wealth, or power, position, name, 
May cast on others, and escape each blame ; 
Yet God has laws that none may e'er describe, 
And judges that no man or gold may bribe, 
Police who' re ever watchful on their round. 
Who see each act, and catch the slightest sound. 
That never let the culprit 'scape his fate, 
But hold to recompense, — yea, soon or late. 
The tempter meets his doom. It matters not 
Though thunderbolts may blast not on the spot. 
Stern Justice binds him with an unseen spell, 
And kindles in his heart the flames of hell ; 
And though he bears the sway in others' room, 
There comes an hour when he must meet his doom. 
I sometimes feel such bitterness to those 



170 POEMS. 

Who work for innocence such utter woes, 

I cannot bear to see them honored stand, 

But ahuost pray for God's avenging hand 

To smite them from the earth, no more to be 

Arch-fiends, with skill betraying purity. 

Then comes the thought, I need not lift the rod ; 

They'll not escape the vigilance of God. 

Such hearts I also seek to reach ; for then, 

Then only, when we have pure-minded men. 

Shall woman shine like stars amid the heaven. 

Must she stand strong, with all these tempters given ? 

Ah, well, we work not always as we would ! 

At disadvantage must we do our good. 

And but a little when we would do much, 

And still the greatest sins we hardly touch. 

I should despair, only I know the drop 

Of rain, will not for some great deluge stop, 

But takes its place, perhaps in some flower's heart, 

And is content to do its little part. 

Instead of looking o'er the parching earth. 

To say. How great the need ! I'm little worth ! 

Let me refresh one flower, and not in vain 

I live my hour ; — I shall take heart again ! 

Bruce . 

Friends, we have dwelt upon this saddening sight, 
Until from every face is gone the light ! 



THE POET. 171 

Now let us bring it backhand keep it there, 
To be the sunshine, still, for every care, 
All ready to be poured o'er others' woe, 
As healing balm wherever we may go. 

MissRayi\iond, 

That's true philosophy ! If we would give 
To others sunshine, in it we must live. 
Now, Ida, smg us something that shall bring 
A blessing here, — bear healing on its wing. 

Bruce. 
Yes^ Ida, sing that little song of thine, 
That Page set to his music so divine ! 

Id A . 

"Well, I will try to cast my little light ; — 
We can't expect to hear from thee to-night? 

Miss R a y 3I o n d . 

Ah, no. To-night I take as time for rest. 

And in this little group I feel so blest. 

Now sing my soul to some bright, fairy dream, 

Until I hear my native mountain stream. ^6- 

{Ida seats herself at the piano. Bruce follows to turn the 
leaves. She sings. 

Shine on me like a star from Heaven, 
That trembles with delight. 



172 POEMS. 

Where on life's sea my bark is driven, 1 

Till I forget 'tis night. 
Shine on me, till thy tender beam 
Fills all my soul like fairy dream ! 

Shine on my soul ! 'tis dark and dread. 

I find but midnight here, 
Save in thy beams that round me shed 

A glory calm and clear. 
Shine on my soul, until thy ray 
Has made my midnight bright as day ! 

Shine, worshipped idol of my soul ! 

Oh, give me love of thine ! 
And waves of joy shall wake and roll 

Through this lone heart of mine. 
Shine, where no soul has shone but thee, 
And be my type of Deity ! 

Bruce, in an undertone^ bending over as if arrang- 
ing the music. 

How thrills my soul to all that song to-night. 
And trembles to its depths with sweet delight ! 

Miss Raymond. 

How sweet the words ! The music is divine ! 
For Page's fair brow tlie laurel yet shall twine. 



THE POET. ^^^ 

Bruce . 
How pure the moonlight falls ! 'Tis like the night 
That Ida heard thee first with such delight. 
Let's take a round on the piazza, do! 
Wrap up in shawls, — the moon invites thee, too. 
It is not colder than an autumn eve. 
New strength and vigor we shall all receive. 

\^The three pass out. 

Bruce. 
'Twas rich, — the scene, surprise, we had to-night I 
Thou, too, deserved to witness such a sight, 
When Ida's parents learned at last, through me. 
That their own daughter was our " Cora Lee." 
And I am glad the Eul^icon is past ; — 
I hope shell have more courage now at last. 

Miss Raymond. 
She must, she will. The world compels a strength, 
When one is laimched upon its waves at length. 
With critics, flatterers, we must take a stand, 
And though before we needed helping hand. 
We grow by stern necessity to power, ^ 
Though as it comes we wonder every hour. 
Thus Ida will be strong. Oh, how I shrank 
From public notice, while at first I drank 
Its turbid stream ! But when the world otice spoke 



174 POEMS. 

Its sentence, such a power awoke 

Within my soul, enough to meet it then, 

And stand uncaring at the sneers of men. 

It gives the soul a broader view of life, 

To be thrown out and mingle with its strife. 

Besides, the world is but society the same - 

On larger scale, and bearing different name. 

What matter if one town, or two, may speak 

Of what is strong in thee, or what is weak ? 

Or state, or states, or hemisphere, or world ? 

One priest or ten, anathemas have hurled ? 

Nine critics or nineteen dispute thy fame ? 

Five presses or five thousand praise or blame ? 

I care as little for the thousands now 

(And would no sooner to their mandate bow) 

As once for personal friends. I bide my fate : 

Through praise and blame the same I work and 

wait. 
And Ida, when thou takest now thy place, 
Let it be done with quiet, gentle grace ; 
But firm, unfearing, as the rock that stands 
Where ocean-waves clutch at it with their hands. 

Ida. 

Ah me, I fear ! and yet I feel more strong 
Than when I lingered undecided long. 
With two such friends and helpers at my side, 
I ought the sternest tempest to abide. 



THE POET. 17r> 

Bruce. 

1 know thou canst. The true and steadfast still 
Must bow the world beneath their potent will. 
It needs but one strong purpose that defies 
The sternest power to crush that ever tries. 

Ida. 

Excuse one moment ! for my cloak's too thin. 
Is thine ? — I'll get some warmer, and be back again. 

\_She e7iters the Jionse. 

Miss Raymond, looking after her ajid smiling- 
archly. 

Confess now, Brvice, that with her magic art 
Unconsciously she's stolen all thy heart ! 

Bruce. 

I do confess. Miss Raymond, that to me 

She is indeed the " Type of Deity." 

1 loved her at the first, and deeper grows 

The feeling in my heart, as on it flows. 

And more than this, from her own lips to-night 

I heard the words that give me such delight, — 

That she returned my love, and sometime now 

She'll be my bride. And I would tell thee how 

This came, as thou hast ever been 

Her friend and mine. — I feared I could not win 



176 POEMS. 

Her heart's young love, and doubted how to tell 
The love in mme, lest it might break the spell, 
And lose for me the confidence she gave : — 
I must confess I was not over brave. 
But in thy latest poem was a scene, 
Where Morton won the love of Eloine ; 
Thou dost remember well the thrilling place — 
I know it by thy earnest, speaking face. 
I read that to her but this very night. 
With heart divided between fear and light, 
And caught the strength thy inspiration gave, 
And poured my love out like an ocean wave. 
And met return. Thou wert the helper, thou, 
Thou knowest not half I owe thee, even now. 
Thy help to Ida, thy unselfish love. 
Thy noble nature evermore must prove ; 
And I shall ever claim my dearest friend 
One who to her such helping hand would lend, 

S^Smiling. 
Then wrote the words with which to win her heart 
Thou hast indeed a real magician's art ! 

Miss Raymond. 

I'm truly glad that I can speak one word 
By which the depths of other hearts are stirred. 
This complimoits my skill all else above. 
If I can write distinctlv others' love. 



THE POET. 177 



Bruce. 



If thou canst write of love so passing well, 
Thou must indeed have felt thyself the spell ; 
Perhaps e'en now thy heart is not thy own, 
Its very sweetness but another's tone. 

Miss Raymond. 

Ah, no, indeed ! I never loved as yet. 
Perhaps life's picture I might truer get. 
Were such the case. But be that as it may, 
I only hope beneath god-Cupid's sway 
I may not bend ; and yet I give thee joy. 
In this thy happiness, may naught destroy ; 
But may the star of love but brighter beam, 
And life be almost like a fairy dream ! 

Ida, joining them. 

I'm here at last ! commissioned though to say. 

That none of us outside must longer stay ; 

For father says, in very piteous tone, 

" The sunlight, moonlight, starlight, all are gone.' 

Bruce. 

I did forget myself! At once we'll go ! 

He will forgive us readily, I know. 

[j/m Raymond retains Ma a moment as they pass in. 
12 



178 POEMS. 



Miss Ra ymond . 



Ah, Ida, I congratulate thee much ! 
Not every day can woman find one such 
True soul as thou hast found to-day : 
May blessings be on both thy heads, I say. 
My two dear friends, how shall I love to see 
The happiness that comes to such as thee ! 
He is like night, all set with stars of thought ; 
Thou art like morning when it first has caught 
Aurora's beams : the two shall blend in one. 
And day shall beam resplendent with her sun. 
Ah, bless thee, Ida ! May thine eyes be bright • 
As now they beam with Love's first sunny light ! 
Thy cheek as fresh with some glad thoug^it within, 
As now it burns in rosy light to win ! 
No tears to stain the roses in their glow, 
No change but joys, to mark the years that flow ! 

[ Tliey pass in. 

Mr. Seymour. 
Well, Bruce, I think, has been most overbold, 
To keep thee out so long in all this cold ! 
As long as moonlight gleams, he thinks 'tis right: 
He'd never know if cold or warm the night. 

Miss R a ym on d . 
'Twas beautiful. — I had forgotten, too. 
But now forgive us all, I beg, please do ! 



THE POET. 179 

Mr. Seymour. 

On this condition : that some one must tell 
What conversation could have had such spell ! 

Bruce. 

Most readily. Miss Raymond says to-night, 
She prays to never bend to Cupid's might ; 
That she has never been in love, not 'she. 
And more than this, she never means to be. 

Mr. Seymour. 

Impossible ! A libel all unheard ! 

I cannot think her guilty of such word. 

Not wish to love, not wish to ever find. 

For sweet companionship, some other mind. 

So like and yet unlike, to meet and blend. 

And higher, better powers through each to send ? 

Defend thyself. Miss Raymond, from the charge. 

The liberty he takes is quite too large. 

Miss Raymond. 

Friend Bruce is right. I've nothing to defend, 
However much I shock thee, my true friend ! 

M5. Seymour. 
Hast never been in love, nor wish to be ? 
If such is truth, do please explain to me ! 



180 P0E3fS. 

MissRaymond. 

If I were not in such an element, 
Where love seems current coin, uncounted lent, 
I should say first, I don't believe in love, 
Or if I do, in only that above, 
, Such as the angels feel who leave their heaven 
To work for man on life's wild ocean driven. 
But I must qualify. So little love I see. 
That sometimes I have doubts if aught can be 
Half worthy that pure name. For one true bliss 
I find in such a family as this, 
I see such agony and such unrest, 
And such a bitter rankling in the breast, 
That, sick at heart, I sadly turn away, 
And think — " I'm sceptical of love to-day." 
Just look at Mrs. Clifton ! She, I know, 
Has such an aching heart beneath her show, 
'Twill, not be long before her lofty pride 
Will bid her wish, long years ago she'd died. 
And tliousands more that here I need not name 
With but the happy few ; — and where's the blame ? 
I must believe in marriage : nature speaks : 
He who would fain evade, but vainly seeks. 
Great Nature's laws are everywhere the same. 
But someway in the meeting is the blame. 
So much of ignorance, of self below. 
So much of passion through false love will flow, 



THE POET. 181 

So much pretence, deception in the plan, 
That I shall sure evade it if I can. 
Let others love — the few as blest as thee ; 
My sympathy is theirs ; but none for me. 

Mr. Seymour. 

I am surprised, Miss Raymond, at such word, — 

From other lips all unbelieved if heard ; — 

With all thy gentle nature and thy heart, 

To thus ignore this life's first, noblest part ! 

Why, woman's highest mission is to give 

To others being, in her place to live ; 

To mould the fresh, young mind with her soft hand, 

And place in other palms her magic wand ; 

To rear the youth to take his father's place, 

More nobly fitted that he bears her grace. 

MissRaymond. 

I grant it woman's place, whene'er she will. 
This most important mission to fulfil ; 
But yet so painful, that the martyr's crown 
To lier belongs ; for round her pathway frown 
Full many a phantom that would sore affright, 
Only she knows her path is toward the right. 
I honor one who does this mission well ; — 
She binds me with her spirit's gentle spell, 
And I sit reverent at her martyr feet, 



182 POEMS. 

As when the great of earth I chance to meet ; 

But still, I think her happiness is slight, 

And that alone in striving for the right. 

And I fulfil my mission, sacred, too. 

The wrongs, mistakes of others to undo ; 

As far as may be, make another's child 

More strong and beautiful, more meek and mild, 

That otherwise had simk in deepest sin, 

But for some voice like mine, in time to win. 

I choose in life from hers a different part. 

Yet Htc like her, devoted to my art ; — 

To strive to do my good, to make the earth 

My home, and wake to still a brighter birth 

The souls I meet, unto my influence given, 

And point them ever some bright path to heaven. 

Like her, I'll take my life within my hand, 

But unlike her, outside the hearthstone stand. 

Yet, if I do, it is that I may shed 

Light to more hearths than one, more thresholds tread, 

And seek more hearts, and sweep them clean from 

sin. 
And life, new life in virtue, help begin. 
The gift that came to me, I'll bear for aye, 
A sacred incense round my path alway ; 
And robed within it, I will pass along, 
And seek communion with the soul of song. 
And all tilings beautiful and fair and bright, 



THE POET. 183 

Aiid scatter o'er the earth their morning light. 
Forgive these words. Yet do I speak them here 
Less strongly than in some far different sphere, 
Where not the semblance e'en of love is borne, 
And bitter sackclotli of the heart is worn. 
Then could I pour my soul out in a strain 
That now I will not ; it would give thee pain. 
God bless all lovers ! say I unto thee ; 
But portion out, Oh fate, not one to me ! 

Mr. Seymour. 

Thou'rt wrong, I think! but as thou wilt. Thy 

heart, 
I see, is wedded only to thy art. 
Perhaps 'tis well ; and yet some noble mind 
In thee such happiness would find ! 

Miss Raymond. 

Not so ! I do not always please myself! 
I'm far from perfect — such a wayward elf ! 
And one that I could love, if such there be, 
Would be as much dissatisfied with me. 
When there's ^perfect man, and I am perfect^ too^ 
I think I might find happiness that's true ; 
But never until then. Myself I hardly bear, — 
Wliat should I do if two should be my share ? 



184 POEMS. 

Bruce. 
Why, help each other bear ! I frankly own 
I should bear much to hear one loving tone, 
To know one heart, despite my faults, was mine, 
Despite its own, must lovingly entwine 
Its destiny with that I bear, and be 
A star of hope through all my life to me. 
And would' st thou then refuse the sun's glad light. 
Because a few dark spots would meet thy sight ? 

Miss Raymond. 

No ! but far rather I would bid it stay 

In its own sky, so beautiful away ; 

Lest coming nigh, I could not help but trace 

Other and larger on its now bright face. 

And lest the sun itself, on coming near. 

Behold but weeds where now the flowers appear; 

Each small defect in noon-day glare would se.e, 

And in disgust refuse to shine on me ! 

Mr. Seymour. 

Hast thou no word to say in this debate, 

My daughter ? Dost thou, too, choose such a fate ? 

Ida, blushing crimson. 
I fear 1 was but spoiled with so much love. 
As you, my parents, gave. But time must prove 



THE POET. 185 

Whether I've strength to stand like her, alone, 
And seek my joy m Art's jDrofound unknown. 

Miss Raymond. 
But, see ! 'tis getting late. I must away ! 
The carriage sure is waiting. Now, I pray, 
Don't think me Amazon, or Gorgon, yet, 
Lest in some after time thou might regret. 

Mr. Seymour. 
I'm only sorry that our sex can bring — 
Not one among us all — an offering 
That thou would'st wear upon thy heart, and say, 
It shone the brightest gem to light thy way. 
I do believe that thou dost hate our race, 
Yet who could think it, with so mild a face ? 

Miss Raymond, lausrhinsr. 

So far from that, I think so much of each, 

I could not bear to their far sphere to reach, 

And choose one to torment tlirough all his life, — 

So sure to be his fate were I his wife. 

Now, Ida, I shall soon expect to see 

Thy work forthcoming. Send the first to me ! 

Don't work too hard, and lose thine eyes' fresh light. 

And now, though hard the word to say, g-ood-nig-ht I 

\_She passes out. Ida pauses with her a feiv moments in the 
haU, while the rest return to the parlor. 



186 POEMS. 



Mr. Seymour. 



It took me by surprise, — her sudden word ! 
And can it be she has her art preferred, 
And ever will, to some true, loving mind ? 
So much of sympathy and help she'd find ! 
I wonder yet — I think it very strange ; 
It must be sometime all her views will change. 

Bruce. 
I think I can appreciate her soul, 
It cannot brook the slightest earth-control, 
But bursts forth free, impulsively, and strong. 
To join with right, and wrestle with the wrong. 
She springs, soul forward, like the hurrying wave, 
The minds that others love to win and save, 
Unless she meets, as meets the wave the rock, 
Some noble soul, and the electric shock 
Of thoughts congenial, as does the wave in spray, 
Dissolves her theory in mist away ; 
She'll live devoted to her art, till life 
Shall be no more, amid this care and strife ; 
But springing from the soil her foot has trod, 
She takes her soul unstained again to God. 
There are but few such souls ; they cannot tread 
The path that others mark ; their course seems led 
By some strange destiny to earth unknown ; 
Like some bright evening star they stand alone. 



THE POET. 187 

Mr. S ey m u r . 

But few such souls, indeed, — but very few ! 
Whate'er she is, I know her good and true. 

Mrs. Seymour. 

Ida can never leave her ; all her heart 
Seems drawn to her, as hers to her pure art. 

Bruce, with emotion. 
Not all, I hope ! — My friends, I wish to say, 
I won a hope from Ida's self to-day. 
That my long, earnest love she could return,— 
The greatest boon for which my soul can yearn, — 
That if thou would'st consent, my bride she'd be. 
And I would ask permission now of thee. 

Mr. Seymour. 
Then Ida loves thee, as I hoped and feared ! 
From but thyself, such words had hardly cheered. 
But, as I told thee, unto thee we give 
More willingly than to one heart that lives. 
Only a year or two let her still be 
A child to us, betrothed true unto thee. 
Till she shall be a woman that can grace 
Most true and fairly any woman's place. 



188 POEMS. 

Bruce. 

She can do that for me without an hour 
Spent waiting; but thou hast the power 
To thus delay. I would not now destroy 
One of thy hopes, to sooner gain this joy. 
^ Her love, her presence, shall my heaven be, 
Her eyes the star of hope to beckon me ! 
And shall I seek her now, and wilt thou bless ? 
Before we sleep, seal this our happiness ? 

Mr. Seymour. 

Go, bring her then ! Thou hast from us beguiled 
Her l^eart ; yet we forgive thee, and our child ! 

[Miss Raymond having just left, Bruce finds Ida in the hall, 
returning to the 'parlor. 

Bruce, clasping her hands in his. 

Come, darling ! both thy parents wait for thee. 
To give their blessing to our love and me ! 

[He leads her into the parlor. She throws herself, weeping, 
into both their arms. They emhrace her unth words of 
tenderness. Then, Bruce taking her hand, they kneel 
before them. 

Mr. Seymour. 

My children ! may thy love be strong and sure, 
Still burning clearer, ever growing pure, 



THE POET. ■ 189 

So strong, no cloud can ever wholly dim, 

But ever growing perfect, more like Him. 

Cling closer when the tempest in its sweep 

Has stirred the very fountains of the deep. 

And should the hand of pain be on the brow, 

Love only stronger than thou lovest now. 

And through affliction let each chord entwine 

Still closer, till thy love is all divine. 

Father ! shower thy blessings on each head ! 

And when the buoyant days of youth are fled, 

Oh, lead them gently down the steps of Time, 

Through gates where Life Immortal stands sublime ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



191 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



THE PEOPLE. 

[" It is worthy of note that while in this, the Government's hour of trial, 
large numbers of those in the army and navy who have been favored with 
the offices, have resigned and proved false to the hand that pampered them, 
not one common soldier or common sailor is known to have deserted his 
flag. Great honor is due to those officers who remained true despite the 
example of their treacherous associates ; but the greatest honor and most 
important fact of all, is the unanimous firmness of the common soldiers, to 
the last man. So far as known, they have effectually resisted the tx*aitorous 
offer of those whose commands but an hour befoi'e they obeyed as absolute 
law." — Abraham Lincoln's 



The power is vested in the people ; 

Though the men of office fall, 
There's a mightier power behind them, 

Ready at the country's call. 
Traitors may betray the Union, 

Brutus-like, may strive to kill, — 
Men of office, politicians, — 

But " the people " never will ! 

Twiggs, like Arnold, stands a traitor, 
Armstrong sunk without a blow ; 

But our land has William Conways, 
To all treason, answering " No." 

13 193 



194 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

These are brave and these are faithful, 

When all others prove untrue ; 
Turns America unfearing — 
' She has faith in such as you. 

Floyd may fail, and e'en Buchanan; 

Bell may toll his parting knell ; 
Yet the banner of our country- 

Floats as widely and as well ; 
For the people bear it onward, 

From the pine-land and the hills, 
From the lakes and from the prairies; — 

We shall have a Country still. 

Kings may boast their standing armies — 

Falling sometimes by their hand ; 
We've, thank God, a standing army 

In the heroes of our land. 
Farmer, merchant and mechanic, 

Lawyer, millionaire, divine, 
These shall make our Stripes a terror. 

These shall be our Stars to shine. 

These shall teach to-day crowned Europe, 

Though may rise a traitor band, 
That a country, through its people. 

Shall have power to nobly stand ; 
Shall maintain its institutions, 

That declare all men are free : 
That true poiver lies in the people, 

Let all Europe turn and see. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 195 

Should the til oughts of truth and virtue, 

Leave the courts and camps of Kings, 
And the halls of Congress echo 

Only to strange murmurings ; 
Should the men of office fail ns, — 

Virtue's sunlight overcast, — 
In the true hearts of the people^ 

We shall find its altar last. 

Socrates, one of the people. 

Taught them truths that live to-day ; 
Christ, from his own humble Nazareth, 

Swept the shades of night away. 
Cincinnatus, grand through virtue, 

Won renown in ancient Rome ; 
Wise, far-seeing, bold Columbus, 

Found a world beyond the foam. 

Pilgrim Fathers, when their rulers 

Sought to bend them to their nod. 
Grew a strong and mighty people, 

Built a home to worship God. 
Washington, from out that people, 

Shone a bright resplendent sun, 
Giving back his country's honors. 

When its mighty work was done. 

Abraham Lincoln, from the people. 

Guides the Ship of State to-day, 
" Like our Washington, Father ! 

Like our Washingtoji," we pray. 



196 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And tlic people, upward springing 
At the trumpet's sudden blast, 

He shall find them what he writes them- 
" True and faithful to the last." 



THE SOLDIER'S SHROUD, 

He lay upon the battle-field, 

His forehead to the sky. 
The death-damp in his matted hair, 

And dim his glazing eye ; 
Embalmed within his own heart's blood 

At Freedom's altar shed, 
Among the heroes of that strife, — 

The dying and tlie dead. 

He lay upon the l^attle-field, 

No friend nor loved one nigh ; 
He wrapped his banner round his form, 

Most royally to die. 
He bore it proudly in the fight ; 

A sacred charge 'twas given ; 
Fold after fold it floated out, 

And caught the stars of heaven. 

It led the way to Freedom's foes, 
That patriot's eye might see. 

And stronger grow at every sight, 
The Flag of Liberty. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 197 

He bore it proudly, though the blood 

Was flowing from his side, 
Though drop by drop his life went out, 

It floated in its pride. 

He bore it onward, though his step 

Grew faint, and weak, and slow. 
Still, still upraised : — he could not bear 

To see it trailing low. 
And when at last his latest power 

Failed, with his failing breath, 
He fell amid its glorious folds, 

All shrouded in his death. 

Had ever soldier better shroud. 

Upon the battle-plain ? 
'Twould almost make the dead arise 

To bear it on again. 
Had ever soldier better shroud ? — 

To him the stars seemed given, 
To light the gloomy vale of death, 

And lead him safe to heaven. 

He lay in state ; though but his foes 

Beheld him in his pride. 
He lay in state ; as if in death 

Their power he still defied. 
'Twas sad to see his fair young face, 

So pale, so still, so cold ; 
Yet could he well afford to die, 

Wrapped in that Banner's fold. 



198 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Brave soldier ! if, in brighter lands, 

Unto thy hand is given 
The snow-white Banner, Flag of Truce, 

Oh, bear it back from heaven ! 
And join our ranks, and let it float. 

Till all shall turn to thee. 
Till white-robed Peace, within our midst, 

Joins hands with Liberty ! 



EMANCIPATION IN THE DISTRICT OF 
COLUMBIA. 

Now God be praised ! for this old world has moved ; 
Time's rusty wheels at last are newly grooved ; 
And our own country vibrates to the shock. 
As when a mighty earthquake smites the rock. 
It shook the Senate Chamber as it passed ; 
It echoed like a trumpet's sudden blast ; 
The time-stained White House with the voice awoke ; 
And Freedom stood erect once more, and spoke : 

" No longer at ray feet shall crawl the slave, 
While high in air my starry banners wave ; 
No longer will I list their clanking chain. 
Or on my garments wear this loathsome stain. 
I stretch my hand, and grasp the power to-day ; 
When others fail, myself will bear the sway ; 
As when my sons declared themselves the free. 
Shall beam once more the star of Liberty. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 190 

" In this, the District where my Temple stands, 
I burst, indignant, every captive's bands. 
Here, in my home, my glorious work begin, 
Then blush no more, each day, to see this sin. 
Thus finding room to freely breathe and stand, 
I'll stretch my sceptre over all the land. 
Until, unfettered, leaps the wailing slave, 
And echoes back the blessings of the brave." 

The Eagle hears her voice majestic given. 

And down he sweeps like thunderbolt from heaven. 

And, with a joyous scream, he makes the dome 

Of our freed Capitol his future home ; 

Never to seek again his eyrie high, 

To sit with drooping wings and scornful eye ; 

But ready at the call, to lead the brave, 

Who shout, " Emancipation to the Slave ! " 

Ay, throw thy banners to the breeze of heaven ; 
From slavery's chain another link is riven ! 
Ring joyous chimes, as rung that bell of old, 
Which once our fathers' " Declaration " told. 
A few more roods of free soil has our land ; 
Our Capitol, at least, has room to stand. 
Send one more bolt, God, from heaven to smite, 
And slavery cowers forever from our sight ! 

Not all in vain have lovers of the right. 
Proclaimed true freedom in their fearless mio^ht ; 
Not all in vain the efforts of the brave, 
To break the fetters from the bleeding slave. 



200 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Ay, not in vain on Slavery's sod is shed 
The blood of our brave hearts, our cherished dead ; 
For, thus baptized, our soil shall all be free, — 
The fruit of patriot's blood is Liberty. 



THE AMERICAN EAGLE. 

The Eagle sits with drooping wing upon the Southern 

coast. 
With soiled and broken shield, the arrows from his 

talons lost. 
The stars from his blue banner fled, the lightning from 

his eye ; — 
Old Eagle, by thy sons betrayed, dost think it time 

to die ? 

Why waits he silent on his crag, his eyrie on the 

height ? 
Has his keen eye grown dim with age, or blasted by 

this sight ? 
Hears he no clash of sounding steel, no tramp of armed 

men? 
Down let him sweep, and lead to '^ Death or Liberty " 

again ! 

But, lo! the North, that upward springs the Stars and 
Stripes to save. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 201 

With serried ranks, and glistening steel, and loyal 
hearts and brave, 

To hold the Union — leaves behind the patriot's cleav^ 
ing sword, 

The watchword ^f a Nation's might, its sacred house- 
hold word ; 

And though that Northern heart is stirred, and thougli 

its shout has rung 
Through all the land, — 'tis not the song the patriot 

fathers sung ; 
They shout '' The Union ! " evermore — " we'll stand 

or fall for thee ! " 
The dying Eagle scorns to hear ; his word is — Liberty. 

The British Lion leaves his lair, and shakes his shaggy 

mane, — 
" America's proud bird will die — her sons be mine 

again ; " 
And in his haste to seize his prey, treads down the 

bleeding slave, 
That, through long years of misery, has fled to him to 

save. 

The eagle opes his glazing eye, as comes the distant 
roar 

Of his old enemy, that wakes the echoes of each shore ; 

With ruffled plumage lists in vam for Freedom's battle- 
cry, 

Then sinks ; unlike his fallen sons, he knows his time 
to die. 



202 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Proud bird! thou scorn' st to live, — tis well! Die 

brave, and bold, and free, 
Rather than live to symbolize aught less than Liberty. 
When these thy sons shout other words, to wake thy 

boding scream, \ 

Perish the nation of thy love, — a vague, forgotten 

dream ! 

Better America should die — her light' forever set 
Among the nations — than her sons 'that watchword 

should forget ; 
Better her daughters die of grief o'er freemens' bloody 

graves, 
Than these her stars and stripes should float above her 

million slaves. 

Shout but the watchword. Liberty ! and the old Eagle 
springs 

Back to his native power, and loud his piercing war- 
cry rings. 

His eye shall catch its ancient fire, then, Northmen, 
only then, 

Shall come his scream, — the tocsin bell of liberty 



Shout but the watchword. Liberty ! Mount Yernon's 

tomb shall shake, 
Shout but the watchword. Liberty ! and the whole 

world must wake. 
Shout but the watchword. Liberty ! the spirits of the 

free. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 203 

Shall leave e'en heaven to watch and write thy nation's 
history. 

Yes, patriots, martyrs, heroes brave, through all the 

mighty past, 
Who died for freedom, and around her shrine a glory 

cast, 
Shall break from their long mystic sleep at that one 

word sublime. 
And roll the anthem grand through all the corridors 

of Time. 

No ! Eagle, in thy wounded pride, we pray thee die 

not yet ; 
Thy glorious sun of liberty we pledge thee shall not 

set ; 
America shall send her voice through all the listening 

sky. 
And call for " God and Liberty." Ho, Eagle ! scorn 

to die ! 



TEMPTER AND TEMPTED. 

Deep in the gTave, 
To sin a slave. 

She went for rest ; 
Poor weary heart 
Tliat had no part 

With aught that's blest. 



204 MISCELLANEO US POEMS. 

The voice of sia 
Had power to win — 

Her soul to blast ; 
No tears to flow, 
Few cared to know 

Where she was cast. 

She once was true 
Young heart as you, 

And free from stain ; 
The tempter came — 
With him the blame. 

With her the pain. 

And yet the world 
Its vengeance hurled 

On her so weak ; 
But took him in. 
All stained with sin. 

With none to speak. 

Well, let her die ! 
Forgotten lie, 

With none to weep ; 
Her tomb shall break, 
A voice awake 

Her from her sleep ; 

And angel tears 
Shall soothe her fears, 
And blot her sin ; ' 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 205 

And clothed in white, 
Grown pure and bright, 
She Heaven shall win. 

O'er him at last — 
Death's portals past — 

Remorse shall roll ; 
A guilty stain. 
The mark of Cain, 

Be on his soul. 



LET THE SAINTS BE GLAD IN 
HEAVEN. 

Ah ! let the saints be glad in Heaven, 

And let them glory see ; 
But I will have still longer life 

Ere I'll an angel be. 

I care not for the heaven above, 

I'll make a heaven below ; 
I'd rather walk an angel here, 

Than all the angels know. 

I shall not see the face of God, 

If I should enter heaven ; 
So I will stay, and be like God, 

And give the gifts He's given. 



206 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Then let the saints be glad in heaven ! 

And I'm rejoicing too ; 
If they are good and glorious there, 

I'll be while here as true. 

I care not for the golden harps, 

I care not for the crown ; 
I'd rather scatter kingdoms here, 

And put the tyrants down. 

And if in white robes they may live, 

And silver sandals wear. 
And walk the streets all paved with gold, 

And breathe a purer air ; 

I'd rather wear the garb of man, 

And seek the lonely street. 
Where I the child of poverty 

And wretchedness may meet. 

I'd rather have a step that brings 

A joy at every tread. 
Than all the silver sandals worn 

By saints to earth long dead. 

Then bring me life, an earthly life ! 

And let me live it true, 
Before, blessed saints in Heaven ! 

I come to join with you. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 207 

THE STOTO SOUL'S DEFIANCE. 

All, all is dark ! Ten thousand clouds 

Make pall-like all my soul, 
And through its dreary, dismal depths 

The awful thunders roll. 
Fate wraps rae in lier blackened shroud, 

The pall-cloth of her gloom ; 
And Destiny, with ruthless hand, 

Prepares me for the tomb. 

Talk not of hope or joy, to me ; 

It has a sound like scorn : 
I curse the boon of Life ! I curse 

The day that I w^as born ! 
Mock not with words of future life ; 

I tell you, 'tis in vain : 
Man sleeps a long and dreamless sleep ; 

He never wakes again. 

A few^ short days, a few short years, 

Of toys and petty play, 
A few dark trials of the heart, 

And then he glides away. 
And like a poor, degraded wretch, 

Ho creeps unto his rest. 
With but one mantle o'er him cast — 

The sod upon his breast. 

Forth out of darkness unto earth, 

A stranger does he come ; 
Like wanderer in a foreign land, 

He always pines for home, 



208 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And finds it not, unless in death ; 

His life, so short, so vain, 
The only boon I deign to ask, 

God, take it back again ! 

I scorn so mean a thing as life ; 

I scorn the Giver, too ; 
For, out of all His mightiness, 

Man has not half his due. 
And yet I scorn to thus^ complain, 

'Tis base as tliis my life ; 
I will not stoop to mix me up 

With all its petty strife. 

I'll stand a martyr on the shore 

Of time, my little day, 
And bravely meet the surging waves 

That bear my life away. 
I'll make my soul too great to bend. 

Too mighty to complain ; 
If there's no greatness in this life, 

I'll find it hi my pain. 

I'll live a God the hour I live. 

And like a God I'll die ; 
The mighty darkness of the tomb, 

Unblenched my soul shall try. 
And sing, with last expiring breath, 

" Life gives but one thing grand — 
Upon the voiceless shore of death. 

In solitude to stand." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 209 

And put my bark from off the shore 

Into the silent sea, 
With stoic scorn of this poor life 

My latest thought to be. 
Ho ! Giver of my life and breath, 

I cast it back once more, 
Confront thee, standing in my strength, 

Till all of life is o'er ! 



CHANT OF THE SOUL * 

Across the sea, 

Across the sea of Life I speed ; 
I look to Thee, 

I look to Thee, my God, in need. 

I watch the waves, 

I watch the waves in ceaseless strife ; 
But Thou canst save. 

But Thou canst save, and give me life. 

And in the storm. 

And in the storm, and clouds of night, 
I see Thy form, 

I see Thy form, and all is light ; 



* A3 originally" written by the author, and afterwards set to music by 
J. H. Crawford, of Oswego, N. Y., each stanza of the above poem contained 
six lines, repeating the first and third of each stanza in its present form, 
for the musical effect. 
14 



210 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And hear Thy voice, 

And hear Thy voice low whispering, "Peace," 
And I rejoice, 

And I rejoice in glad release. 

At midnight hour, 

At midnight hour on Life's wide sea, 
I know Thy power, 

I know Thy power keeps watch o'er me. 
• 
And when most lone, 

And when most lone, from friends away, 
I hear Thy tone, 

I hear Thy tone, " I with thee stay." . 

The waves may roll. 

The waves may roll, and all be night ; 
Thou'rt to my soul, 

Thou'rt to my soul its " Beacon Light." 

And through the dark, 

And through the dark on Life's wide sea, . 
I'll steer my bark, 

I'll steer my bark straight unto Thee. 

Though all the night. 

Though all the night so wildly driven, 
At morning light, 

At morning light I'll enter Heaven, — 

And furl my sails. 

And iurl my sails on that bright shore, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 211 

Where stormy gales, 

"Where stormy gales shall come ho more. 

And all my soul, 

And all my soul, like Life's great sea. 
Like waves shall roll. 

Like waves shall roll fore'er to Thee. 



THE REAL PRAYER.^ 

I STOOD within a shadowy-aisled 

Cathedral, vast and dim. 
And listened to the organ's tone. 

Like a perpetual hymn. 
'Twas not the time for service grand, 

When thousands gather there ; 
Only a few, with stricken hearts, 

Bent low in silent prayer. 

The pictures on the walls were works 

Of some great master hand. 
And bade the solemn past return. 

Like famed magician's wand. 
And what a heaven was in the eye 

And face, upturned, divine. 
Of that Madonna ! Could one help 

But bow at such a shrine ? 

* A fact. 



212 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And, oh, the agony of hmi — 

The Christ upon the tree ! 
I turned- away, — too much, too much 

Like stern reahty. 
And saint and martyr, bearing rack 

And torture for " His sake," 
O'er all the walls ; enough it seemed 

The heart well-nigh to break. 

I looked again at those in-prayer, 

And said, " Who knows the heart ? 
Those pictures, like reality, 

Are but the works of art ; 
And may not these be pictured prayers, - 

The essence passed away, — 
Devotion's form without the soul. 

The worshippers to-day ? " 

I paused in thought, and said, ''Thy soul, 

Religion, tell me where ? " 
When through the open door there came 

An answer to my prayer : 
A ragged little errand-boy, 

With bundle in his hand, 
Walked silently, and knelt him down 

Where I had dared to stand. 

He dropped the bundle by his side, 
And crossed his hands in prayer, 

And lifted up his little face, 
A living' picture there. 



MISCELLANEOUS P0E3IS. 213 

And what an earnest, speaking face ! 

How eloquent the form 1 
Face, form, and ragged garments said, 

" God shield me from the storm." 

Madonna, saint, and martyr-face, 

Faded like mist away. 
"The past be with the past," I said; 

" Devotion lives to-day ! 
That look of earnest, trusting faith. 

No hypocrite may wear : 
This poor, lone, friendless, kneeling chil^ — 

The very soul of prayer ! " 

Day after day I've seen them kneel ; 

Long prayers I've often heard ; 
But never one like that to me, — 

That prayer without a word. 
And when I weary of the guilt 

That in devotions share, 
I think of that young worshipper, 

And still keep faith in prayer. 



214 MISGELLANEOUS POEMS. 

THE RUINED CHURCH. 

It was a sadder sight than one would think, 
To see that ruined church upon the hill, 

Deserted, dreary, lone and desolate ; 
But then its spire vmuld point to heaven still. 

Like standard-bearer wounded in the fight, 
' Who, with his last remaining strength, upholds 

His nation's banner; so this dying church, 
In its last hours, seemed bent on saving souls. 

'Twas sad to see the windows broken through ; 

But then they let God's air and sunshine in : 
The church, once closed to keep all errors out, 

Now seemed as if it prayed more light to win. 
And early spring-birds entered fearless there, 

Within the church-pale unconverted came. 
And built their nests within the pulpit's shade, 

And never dreamed there could be any blame. 

The door stood open ; all might enter in, 

Jew, Christian, Heathen, Mussulman, the same ; 
As if, progressing even in decay. 

It held no creed that fashioned faith or name. 
The pews were broken, doors had fallen off. 

The seats torn up, the plaster paved the aisles. 
Strange names were written on the crumbling walls. 

And rubbish, panels, dust, lay heaped in piles. 

I wondered if the ancient fathers slept 

In peace, within the churchyard just away, 

While this, their pride, their consecrated dome, 
So all unheeded crumbled to decay ; 



MISCELLANEOUS P0E3IS. 21i^ 

And more, if creeds escape while churches fall, 
If they've no broken doors and windows, too. 

By time's or progress' hand, — through which the light 
Of higher truths comes brightly streaming through. 

I climbed with fear the staircase weak and old, 

That tottered like a ship by tempest driven, 
And wondered if the saints had feared as much. 

When through its creed they groped their way to 
heaven ; 
And stood within the galleries that ran 

From end to end, and bent and gazed below 
With heart that trembled like the saints of old, 

Lest all should crumble, and I " sink to woe." 

And, as 1 gazed, and thought how sad that now 

No feet of worshippers its old aisles trod, — 
Alike forsaken by its builder, man, 

And him to whom they gave, its owner, God ; 
1 heard the voice of children in their mirth, 

A group of little faces gathered there. 
All unbaptized, some fresh from God's own hand, 

Who played and sported where they knelt in prayer. 

The scene grew dim ; my eyes were full of tears : 

Why ask for saints from those old days gone by, 
Wlien here come those with morning on their cheeks, 

And heaven's own blue just prismed in their eye V 
Those sunny curls an angel well might wear, 

Those guileless hearts an angel's well might be. 
No prayer that came from kneeling homage there, ' 

Had half such music as their tones to me. 






216 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

No'sermon like their joyous, happy face, 

Their trust in all that comes, and is to come ; 
Their perfect love and absence of all doubt, 

Strike sceptic, priest, and pope, alike as dumb. 
And who shall say they are not nearer Heaven, 

Than those old saints with all their " change of 
heart," — 
These, fresh from God, just wandered out of heaven. 

Those, travelling back with theologic art ? 

I lingered till the human angels passed, 

Until the sun was growing faint and dim. 
When, soft and sweet, amid the stillness there, 

The birds — Heaven's choir — began their vesper 
hymn ; 
And while I listened to their " Te Deum," 

That made the ruin with its echo ring, 
I said, " Not half so sweet the anthems loud, 

That many souls in dim cathedrals sing ! " 

And while this spire keeps pointing unto Heaven, 
And while the birds will build their nests and sing, 

And while the sunny, blue-eyed children play, 
A strange, rich beauty to these ruins cling ; 

And I would rather wander there alone. 
Though by no worshipper its aisles are trod, 
To give my soul's deep homage unto God. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 217 



BEAUTIFUL SLEEP. 

Beautiful sleep ! 
We call you, we implore you, 

Come to us now ; 
Help us to rest the weary head. 
From which the strength and power have fled. 

And soothe the aching brow. 

Beautiful sleep ! 
We kneel in prayer before you, 

We pray you keep 
Your watch around the bed of one 
Whose work in life is scarce begun ; 

Oh, bid her not to weep. 

Beautiful sleep ! 
Wonder not that we adore you ; 

For thou dost make 
For mortals such sweet dreams, 
That brighter each thing seems 

Than in the hour they wake. 

Beautiful sleep ! 
We pray you, we adjure you, 

To bring your balm, 
And round this soul thy mantle cast, 
Till all the midnight hours are past. 
Oh, shield us from all harm, 
Beautiful sleep ! 



218 . MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

INTO THE DEPTHS OF HADES. 

Into the depths of Hades, 

Into its gloomy shade, 
I'd go to find thee, loved on^! 

Why hast, why hast thou stayed ? 
Didst thou not promise my own to be ? 
Hast thou not plighted thy troth to me ? 

Wherefore then stay so long ? 

Wherefore then stay so long, love, 

Hiding away from me ? 
Had death but taken me, love, 

I would have come to thee. 
I would have burst from its gloomy gate, — 
Ah, when did I ever make thee wait ? 

Oh, do not tarry now ! 

Oh, do not tarry now, love ! 

My hair is growing gray, 
While here I wait for thee, love, 

For thee, long years away. 
Has that strange land been so bright to thee, 
That thou in joy hast forgotten me. 

In thy bright home in Heaven ? . 

In thy bright home in Heaven, love I 

Were I once safely there. 
And thou on earth, no rest, love, 

I'd find, till thou couldst share. 
I'd leave my white robe, I'd leave my crown ; 
My golden harp, I would dash it down, 

And find and bring thee home ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 219 

And find and bring thee home, love ! 

In Hades if thou art, 
I'd share its tortures, dread, love, 

Rather than dwell apart. 
For Heaven like Hades alone would be, 
And Hades a Heaven, if shared with thee. 

Then come, come back again ! 



SHAME ON THE COWARD SOULS 

Shame on the coward souls that bend 

At some such trifling thing, 
And stoop from all their loftiest thoughts. 

Such bitter words to bring ! 

Shame on the coward souls whose power 

Is but in sunny days ! 
That faints,and dies, and fades away, 

In sorrow's misty ways. 

Shame on the coward souls that sink 

Into themselves, when pain 
Has seized them with a death-like grasp, 

Nor gives them up again ! 

Shame on the coward souls that let 

Some angry word disturb. 
That know not on their haughty soul 

To place the proper curb ! 



220 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Shame on the coward souls that,wheii 
They know full well their sin, 

Wait, craven-hearted, ere the work — 
Redemption — they begin ! 

Shame on the coward souls who've done 
A known and wilful wrong, 

Yet wait ere reparation's made — 
Wait coldly, wait so long ! 

Shame on the coward souls,while here 

In this first life they live. 
Who learn not well that mighty work, 

So Godlike, — to forgive ! 

Shame on the coward souls that,when 
They've done a wrong or stain. 

Shall seek forgiveness, and then soon 
Shall do it o'er again ! 

Shame on the coward souls that seek 

The beautiful and high, 
Then sink below their better selves, 

And fail when most they try ! 

Shame on the coward souls that wait ! 

Let them for once be strong. 
And strike a death-blow swift and sure 

To all within that's wrong ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 221 

ENDURE. 

Strikes it coldly on the heart — 
Endure, endure, be what thou art ? 
Never bend beneath the load, 
Never falter on the road, 
Onward, proudly, through the strife, 
'Tis the corner-stone of life ; 
Make your happiness secure. 
Endure, endure, endure, endure! 

Age on age must pass away 
Ere earth saw the light of day ; 
Age on age must come and go 
Ere she saw her waters flow ; 
Age on age be long gone by. 
Life on life must live and die, 
Ere her work was strong and sure, 
Equal to endure, endure. 

Nation after nation rise, 
Standing, pointing to the skies. 
Giving place to others still, 
Li the Father's mighty will ; 
Race by race must pass away, 
Leaving naught to point the way. 
Ere the soul is strong and pure, 
Ready to endure, endure. 

Trials dark must come and go 
Ere the soul can learn to know 
Of its powers to strive with wrong, 
Hoping, waiting, working long. 



222 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Hope by hope must pass away, 
Sorrows come to dim the day, • 
Ere the soul is strong and sure, 
Powerful to endure, endure. 

Let it be thy pass-word strong 
While you wrestle with the wrong, 
Write it deep within thy lieart, 
It will help to bear thy part ; 
Hold it surely in thy hand 
When before a foe you stand, 
And thy soul shall be secure. 
Always ready to endure. 



WENDELL PHILLIPS. 

He speaks beneath his country's flag to-night, 

Lover of Freedom, champion *of right ! 

For years he stood outside that country's laws. 

Yet struggled bravely in a noble cause ; 

But now he's seen where'er that banner waves. 

Ere long to lose its stain, — the blood of slaves. 

His heart of fire, and tongue of living flame. 

Have burned the veil from off the nation's shame ; 

Those scorching words have lit a fire for thee, — 

A beacon fire, O Goddess, Liberty ! 

Beneath them has old Tyranny awoke, 

And shook and trembled at the truths he spoke. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 228 

Until she rose in wrath, and stands to-day, 

To block the car of Freedom on its way. 

It shall not be ; true hearts like his stand strong, 

And send their shafts to pierce the heart of wrong. 

His was the heart 'unflinching in the storm ; 
His was the noble, almost godlike form 
That walked the streets of Boston, in the day 
When Freedom's sceptre half had lost its sway. 
Then " Liberty's proud cradle " rocked her child 
But roughly ; Tyranny looked on, and smiled. 
His was the escort that the great man wins, 
Who dares to speak against time-worshipped sins ! 
The mob by thousands followed in his train. 
And, but for law, that fearless form had slain ; 
Yet calm, erect, with Jove-like front he met 
Those waves of men^till backward they were set. 
Like some firm rock that still defies the sea, 
Though years the waves have dashed most angrily ; 
Above the strife, its proud, defiant form 
Stands all the same, alike in calm or storm. 
But when our Northern blood had stained the street 
Of Baltimore — foul Treason's work complete ; 
When Massachusetts sprang to avenge the stain. 
Then Wendell Phillips could be heard agahi ! 
They pressed to hear, —^ the mob of weeks ago, — 
Their hearts with patriot fire at last aglow ; 
At Freedom's shrine^they, gathering, bowed with thee. 
Brave heart and strong ! — then came thy victory ! 

We give thee welcome to our midst to-day ! 
Pour forth thy words till Freedom bears the sway 



224 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

O'er all our land ; until no slave shall be ; 
But all shall bear the seal of Liberty ! 

Launch thy " Phillipics" through the hearts of those 
Who dare not meet the cause of all our woes ! 
Hold up the flag,until all hearts shall say 
Its stars shall chase old Error's night away ! 
Let still the cry be, '^ Woe, forever woe 
To all, until they let my people go ! " 



THE COMING TIME. 

When men forget their love of gold, 

And love their honor more ; 
When Truth is only current coin, 

And counted o'er and o'er ; 
When men love Freedom for its sake, — 

For all as well as one, — 
And for the greatest good, their work 

From day to day is done ; 
When men throw self aside, and live 

For some great purpose high ; 
Then will the glorious era come, 

When none shall fear to die. 

Then will the human soul grow strong. 
And wise, and grand, and free. 

Shall rise the coming race, God, 
A fitter type of Thee ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 225 

Then shall Thy seal, and only Thine, 

Be set on every brow, — 
Ay, none shall wear the mark of Cain, 

As millions wear it now ; 
Then shall the Eden bloom again, 

Then shall the angels stand. 
And with new Adams and new Eves, 

White-robed, walk hand-in-hand ! 



THE TRIAL. 

The Past lifts up its solemn voice : 

America, it speaks to thee ! 
The blood of its old patriots cries, 

" Cease not till thou art wholly free ! 
Cease not, till broken every chain, 
And all thy soil is free from stain ! " 

Thou hast no common work to do ; 

'Tis for the coming years you bleed ; 
If thou art worthy of thy time, 

Each drop of blood is precious seed. 
The fathers framed thy glorious plan. 
Now thou must prove its strength to man. 

Not yet must this Republic fail ; 

For kings have wished long years to test 
The " people's power," and see it fall. 

The hour demands it, — do thy best ! 
Teach kings and kingdoms what's true power. 
By behig equal to this hour ! 

15 



226 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

No wonder that the red right arm 
Of battle, bares itself to thee ; 

God, may it never sheathe its sword, 
Till all our soil and souls are free ! 

Till in our midst no slave can stand, 

Give us alone the avenging hand ! 

And when at last our nation springs 
At Freedom's stern, impartial call, 
Proclaiming liberty to man, 

.Sustaining " equal rights" to all, 
Then, at the bondman's glad release. 
May Freedom grasp the liand of Peace. 

Ho, lovers of the true and right ! 

The blood of patriots calls to thee. 
From out their long-forgotten graves — 

The altars of true liberty : 
" Cease not to pour thy blood like rain. 
Till it has cleansed the nation's stain ! " 



THEY TELL ME THOU ART BEAUTIFUL 

They tell me thou art beautiful. 

Thy forehead white as snow. 
While wave on wave around thy head 

The glossy ringlets flow ; 
And that thou hast an eye of fire. 

In which the soul of Song 
Sits mirrored deep, around whose throne 

A thousand fancies throng. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 227 

That thine is such a queenly form, 

And thine such queenly face, 
That every heart in homage bends, 

As in some sacred place. 
And that this casket beautiful 

Holds something brighter far, — - 
A true and lofty, earnest soul, — 

As Evening holds her star. 

I dare not meet thee ! I might stand 

Heart-proof against thy face, — 
And I might look, and but admire 

'Thy dignity and grace ; 
But I should bend idolatrous 

Before thy matchless soul, 
1 could jiot catch its burning glance. 

And yet remain heart-whole. 

I worship at the shrine of thought. 

Of genius, power and mind; 
And well I know thy wondrous spell 

My every sense would bind. 
I know 'tis weak — when comes the foe ' — 

And coward-like to flee ; 
But all have bowed to thee in vain — 

There's left but flight for me ! 



228 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



SERENADE — GOOD- NIGHT. 

Good-night, good-night ! the morning star 

Is growing faint and dim, 
And soon those choristers, the birds, 

Begin their early hymn. 

The Night has drawn his mantle close, 

And turns to pass away. 
And just behind him as he goes, 

I see the foot of Day. 

Good-night, good-night ! for soon the beam 

Will point from off the sun. 
Like sceptre of a mighty king. 

To say the day's begun. 

And while the darkened shadows flee, 

To leave their place for day, 
I, too, with my dark, weary heart, 

Like them shall pass away. 

I've watched and waited all the night, 

To look on thee afar. 
As Morning waits through weary hours 

To gaze upon her star ; 

But now I know no star for me 

In beauty e'er shall rise. 
To shine and send a glory through 

The midnight of my skies. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 229 

For me there shall no morning come, 

For me there is no light ; 
Thou art my sun, — thou risest not, — 

And so, beloved, Good-Night ! 



"YE HAVE DONE IT UNTO ME." 

When thou hast heard the heart's lone prayer, 
Low-uttered in its deep despair, 
When sorrow called, and not in vain. 
When thou hast sought the couch of pain, 
To cheer the sufferer's aching eye. 
And speak of hope, if they must die, — 
Then angels bent to watch o'er thee. 
Saying, " Ye have done it unto me." 

When hearts are tempted unto sin — 
If thou dost speak, their souls to win 
From that dark midnight gulf of pain, 
Making them strong and true again ; 
When wildly by the storms they're driven, 
If thou a purpose high hast given, — 
Then angels bend and watch o'er thee. 
Saying, '' Ye have done it unto me." 

When thou dost firmly, strongly stand. 
With earnest purpose in thy hand, 

* Dedicated to Mrs. E. R. Crawford. 



230 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Though known, or though misunderstood, 
Still striving bravely for the good, 
Ready the power of truth to claim. 
Though others put it unto shame, — 
Then angels bend and watch o'er thee. 
Saying, " Ye have done it unto me." 

When to thy heart and to thy home, 
Thy words have bid the wanderer come. 
And watched with earnest, heart-felt prayer, 
And with a mother's tender care ; 
When long-enduring, working long, 
Through weary months, in purpose strong,— 
Then angels bend and watch o'er thee. 
Saying, " Ye have done it unto me." 

When life's dark shores are left beliind. 
And Heaven's bright portals thou shalt find. 
The angels, in their blest estate. 
Shall open wide the golden gate ; 
And friends, and light, and joy,be given, 
And all-enduring love in heaven ; — 
Then God shall bend and watch o'er thee, 
" Saying, " Ye have done it unto me." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 231 



BURY ME UNDER THE OREENWOOD 
TREE. 

- Bury me, friends, where the flowers shall wave. 
In the early spring, above my grave I 
Where the earliest birds their songs shall sing, 
And the lark toward heaven its flight shall wing. 
Bury me under the greenwood tree ! 
'Tis jthe only place of rest for me. 
I could not sleep in the dark, cold tomb, 
I should pine in its mould, its damp and gloom ! 
Bury me, friends, where the violets grow, 
Where close at my feet the brook shall flow,* 
Where the soft winds whisper among the bowers, 
And the mosses sleep with the brightest flowers. 
Bury me under the greenwood tree ! 
'Tis the only place of rest for me. 



Come, when the flowers are in earliest bloom, 
Come with the earliest spring-birds, come ! 
Come when the leaves are fresh on the trees, 
And they softly sigh to the summer breeze. 
Then every flower like my eye shall seem. 
The song of the bird like my life's first dream, 
While the whispers aloft in the leafy tree, 
Shall all seem voices that come from me. 

And do not weep for the dust that's laid 
In the dim, cathedral, forest shade. 
Think of me only as truly blest — 
That I've found at last my promised rest ! 



232 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Bury me deep in the forest lone, 
Where only of Nature I'll hear the tone, 
Where the foot of man has seldom trod, — 
Bury me there, alone with God ! 



THE MOKNING LAND,. 

They sailed from out the sunrise 

Into the light of day, 
•Into the blaze of noontide. 

With all its gorgeous ray ; 
Out of the night of darkness. 

Out of the house of pain, 
Swift through the morning sunrise, 

Swift through the day again. 
Sail on, sail on ! Life's flowing river 

Leads forever to the Giver ! 
Sail on, sail on ! thy bark must be 

Forever toward Eternity ! 

Into Ihe silent darkness. 

Into the unknown deep. 
Over the silent river 

Pass, and never weep ! 
On the shore there's waiting, 

Loved, to clasp thy hand, 
Joys of the hereafter. 

In that Morning Land ! 



3IISGELLANE0US POEMS. 23B 



DEVOTION. 

I WORSHIP at great Nature's shrine, 

Devout as any saint 
That bows before the " great white throne," 

The past has loved to paint. 
My temple is th.c Universe, 

Its dome the arching sky. 
Its lamps the glorious burning stars, 

The clouds its imagery. 

The Ocean my baptismal fount, 

The " holy water " there ; 
The fruits of earth God's sacrament, 

And all may in it share ; 
The earth my Virgin Mother pure, 

To whom I kneel and pray ; 
Ave Maria ! says my soul — 

She answers me alway. 

The crucifix to which I bend 

Is God's own Bow of Light, 
I count the stars, like Catholics 

That tell tlicir beads at night ; 
The morning mist that graceful floats. 

And lingers on the hill. 
Makes e'en the mountain seem to me 

A nun, white-veiled and still. 



234 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And, oil ! the mighty organ grand, 

Whose countless thousand keys 
Are scattered through the universe, 

And swept by every breeze ; 
How does my inmost spirit thrill — 

Spell-bound with magic wand — 
Beneath those grand and solemn strains, 

Waked by the Master Hand ! 

I join the hymn of Nature's choir, 

That binds me as a spell ; 
With Nature's Beautiful in prayer 

I whisper, " All is well : " 
'Tis always Sabbath unto me. 

And hallowed is the sod ; 
One Priest is at the altar there — 

That Priest the living God ! 



WAITING AT THE GATE* 

I WAIT, I wait at the golden gate. 
That has opened and shut again ; 

My sun has set, it is growing late, 
Bright angels, 0, take me hi ! 

It has opened and taken the loved ones home, 

And I hear them calling my spirit to come ; 

I am weary, heart-weary, as onward I roam, 
And would rest, — 0, take me in ! 

* Written for Father Benjamin Gleason. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 235 

I gaze, I gaze on the golden blaze 

Of the clouds in a summer even, 
Till tlicy seem to me as tlie sun-bright rays 

That sbJne from tlie courts in Heaven ; 
Till they light my soul with a glorious gleam, 
Till 1 fancy tlieni dreams that the angels dream. 
Till they fade, and the stars come forth and seem 

To my spirit as answers given. 

I liBar, I hear from the angel sphere 

A melody sweet and divine. 
Till I knoAV that the ones I love are near, 

That their spirits are singing to mine ; 
Till I long on the billows to float far away 
Beyond tlie dark clouds and the sun's setting ray. 
To the land of the Morning — Heaven's glorious 
day, — 

To thy liome, thou dear loved ones — to thine ! 

I see, I see oft the Eden-tree, 

That is drooping with fruit most rare. 
And J know it is waiting, ah, waiting for me. 

In its riclniess and splendor to share ; 
And my spirit, half-fainting, looks up and is strong. 
For I liear the rich tone of the Seraphim's song 
That murmurs in sweetness, " Not long, oh, not long 
Shalt thou linger in mournfulness there ! " 

Then I'll wait, I'll wait at tlie golden gate. 

Till it o|jens and shuts again ; 
Though my sun is set, though 'tis growing late, 

[ will wait till they take me in ; 



236 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

For I know the bright hour is coming to me, 
Wlien my spirit will spring from its bondage free, 
Through the golden gate I will pass to thee, 
Loved ones, and be taken in ! 

Oswego, August 9, 1859. 



THE SOUL OF SONG. 

Sweet spirit ! that lives in my spirit's deep cells, 

And wakes into music each string. 
Oh, touch with thy hngers my long silent lips, 

And bid them with melody smg ! 

I hear thy rich echoes forever and aye ; 

They haunt all the depths of my soul; 
I listen within to thy 'anthems sublime. 

And tremble and weep as they roll. 

Oh, Soul of sweet Song ! that shall live in my soul, 
And thrill in my heart-strings for aye, 

Wake, wake to thy numbers my passionless lips. 
And set them to music to-day 1 

I dream of thy spirit such beautiful dreams ! 

They haunt me in hours of my rest ; 
I hear thy low murmurs — a passionate wail — 

When my spirit is dark with unrest. 

Oh! touch my cold lips as my soul has been touched, 
Till they speak of the grandeur within ! 

Oh ! give me the power to repeat thy sweet strains, 
Or I die in the effort to win ! « 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 237 



TAKE ME HOME. 

Oh, take me home ! I cannot bear 

In this strange land to die, 
With stranger hands to smooth my brow, 

And closf^ my dying eye. 

My mother through the weary hours 

Is waiting me to come ; 
I cannot die in this strange land, — 

Oh, take me, take me home ! 

The tones I hear are strangers' tones; — 

Familiar sounds and dear 
-Seem far away, — so far away 

They camiot reach me here. 

Why, far away from that loved spot, 

Dear kindi'ed, did I roam ? 
I cannot die in this strange land, — 

Oh, take me, take me home ! 

How can I rest within my shroud, 
That stranger hands should make ? 

How can I sleep within my grave? — 
My mother's heart will break ! 

The sun may shine upon that grave. 
The fragrant air may come ; 

Yet who could rest in this strange land ? 
Oh, take me, take me home ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

I miss my mother's hand to wipe 
The death-damp from my brow ; 

I miss the last grasp of her hand, 
I miss her strangely now. 

Alone, I cannot find my way 
To Heaven's eternal dome : 

Let me not die in this strange land,— 
Oh, take me, take me home ! 



WHO ARE THE BEAUTIFUL? 

Who are the beautiful ? They with a face 
Gifted by nature with every grace ? 
They with a form termed faultless by art ? 
They are the beautiful, who own a true heart. 

Who are the beautiful ? They with an eye 
Dark as the midnight, or blue as the sky, 
Ever like magic on others to roll ? 
They are the beautiful who've wealth of soul. 

Who are the beautiful ? Those who are young. 
And sunny and fresh, as the poets have sung. 
Graceful and floating, and free as the wind ? 
They are the beautiful, — the noble in miiid. 

These are the beautiful : They that can stand 
Nobly forever with heart and with hand. 
Making thrice lovely the spot they have trod ; — 
They are the beautiful, — types of the God ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 239 

TO THE WAVES THAT ROLL. 

Hark to the waves that roll 
Deep, deep within the soul — 

Hear them sob and weep ! 
They mourn the silent dead, 
For whom such tears are shed 

In its fountains deep. 

Its anguish who shall tell, 
For loved ones gone to dwell 

In their homes unknown ? 
Its weary waves repeat, 
" We never more shall meet — 

Evermore alone ! " 

weary waves, find rest ! 
In regions of the blest 

Must they live sublime. 
soul, be strong ! thou'lt meet 
The loved, in their retreat, 

Far beyond all time. 



MOUNTAINS. 

I SEE them in their beauty once again : 
The dear Green Mountains greet my eyes to-day, 
Not black and bare as when they met my view 
But one month since ; but rich with foliage green. 
As if they donned a festal robe to greet 



240 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

My coming feet. How still the valley lies 
Beneath their shade ! as if protecting arms 
Unseen, sustained it there, and gave it rest. 
How every leaf, and flower, and tiny bud, 
Looks up and smiles, and thanks the sun's warm 

beams 
That steal so lovingly into its heart, 
To give it richer tints and fairer sheen ! 
And hush ! the murmur of an unseen power 
Is on the air, as if 'twere Nature's song. 
The lullaby she sings unto her child, 
When weary of the heat and glare of day. 
There's such a music in the low-breathed strain, 
So half unheard, that all my soul grows hushed 
And still, beneath the strange, mysterious sound, 
As if an angel sung. Each bough and leaf 
Upon .the tree, just trembles to the strain. 
As if 'twere keeping time to every note. 
Or possibly because the thrilling touch 
Of this unseen musician stirs their depths, 
And sets them all to music. Now there comes 
A sudden breeze upon the grass, that waves 
Its courteous salutation, as it goes 
To touch Eolian harps among the trees 
That guard the tall old mountain's breast. 
Like serried ranks of men. How every string 
Gives answer to the touch, and sends its voice 
With stirring peal, deep home to every heart " 
That listens to the sweep, and stirs within 
A stronger wish for action in itself. 
It is as if a God had sudden passed, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 241 

And every tree grew conscious to its depths, 
And bends its head in homage at the sight, 
And trembles through the leafy veil of green. 
With secret awe. 

I love the Mountains grand. 
For they have boldly stood confronting storms 
And tempests in their wrath ; and hurricanes 
And whirlwinds beat their forms in vain. 
They never cower when comes the biting blast, 
Or shrink when storm-clouds wrap them in their 

shrouds, 
But rear their foreheads to the sky the same ; 
And when the cloudy veil is rent in twain. 
Bright, living sunshine, like the smile of God, 
Upon their summit rests. Alike in storm or calm 
Immovable, fit emblem of the true 
And loyal hearts that cling to truth and right, 
Still firmly standing when the weaker fail. 
And pointing, reaching still unerringly 
Toward heaven. How can one human being live 
Beneath their shade, unconscious of the truth. 
The mighty lesson that they teach ? How can 
Disloyal hearts, disloyal to themselves. 
Their God, their country, and their sense of right. 
Grow up beneath their calm, unbending fronts. 
And shame the soil from whence they sprung ? 
But few such souls find breath amid their wilds, 
And they are aliens, even at their birth. 
Old Scotia's Highlands reared such noble hearts ; 
Her crags and dells held eagle-hearted men 
Who would not brook the foul usurper's power, 

16 



242 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

But made the Lowlands feel the hnsigry beak 

Of those who thirsted for their freedom gone. , 

There Wallace dwelt, — her truest, bravest son, — 

And lit the beacon fire that burned a flame 

At last on Freedom's altar, once defiled, 

But now swept clean once more from every stain. 

And Switzerland's bold mountains bore a Tell, 

As bold and as invincible as they : 

Who woke the echoes of their dizzy heights 

With Freedom's watchword ; till the tyrant fell. 

Pierced with a shaft from that Swiss patriot's hanci. 

And at his fall bright Liberty arose, 

And stood erect within the citadel. 

The rocky fortress God's own hand has made 

To shield the brave. 

Thank God ! a thousand times 
Thank God for mountains ! They have ever been 
The exile's home, the outlaw's safe retreat, 
The last resort of God's old martyr-saints 
When men had cast them out as heretics, 
Closing the temple-gates against their forms. 
And hunting them with rack and torturing art, 
E'en to their death. The Mountains took them in, 
God's grand cathedrals towering to the skies. 
Within whose depths the ever-sweeping winds 
Make grand >and solemn anthems unto God, 
That rise toward Heaven forever. Many a time 
Have their deep, shadowy aisles at midnight woke 
With paeans of pure praise from loyal hearts 
That, cast from earthly temples, sought tlicir wilds, 
To pour the fulness of their hearts in prayer 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 243 

To Him who casts them not away. Wiuit prayers 

Have welled from breaking hearts amid their deeps ! 

What vows of vengeance have the mountains nnrsed ! 

What deep devotion has gone up from souls 

To whom devotion was their life and light ! 

How many a houseless, homeless, wand'ring one 

Has slept secure upon the mountain's breast, 

Protected by its canopy of leaves, 

And soothed to rest by its wild lullaby ! 

The martyr's bones are bleaching there unknown ; 

The living martyr-patriot nurses there 

His wrongs yet unredressed, until his strength 

Shall be sufiicient for his utmost needs ; 

When, rushing on his foe like mountain stream 

Just swollen by rains, he brings the power 

That makes the Red Sea for their Pharaoh hosts. 

When Freedom's altar is o'erturned, defiled. 

Her emblems rent and stained with blood and sin. 

When, wounded, bleeding, from her shrine she turns, 

With tyrant blood-hounds howling on her track. 

Her last retreat shall be her temple, built 

Amid the mountain fastnessess by her 

Own true and tried ; the last to turn away 

And lea^e her to her fate, the last to fail 

In Freedom's cause, these hardy mountaineers ; 

TJie last to gather round her in her need, 

And make a bulwark with their forms, and stand 

Defending her till death. 

Ah, once again 
I welcome tliee, old Mountains of my youth, 
As thou dost welcome me, a wanderer ! 



244 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

I've been so weary since I saw thy face, 

So faint with paiu,and anguish, and distress, 

So ahnost wild with fever's frenzied touch, 

Heart-weary, sick of all the world, of life ! 

Oh, how I longed to have some friendly arm 

Bear me away from that far stranger land. 

And brmg me unto thee, and lay me down 

Upon thy cool, true breast, and let me die ! 

And now I come, and but one touch of thine 

Sends healing through my weary frame once more. 

I lean my head on thy unchanging breast, 

And draw fresh strength through every vein, and life 

In every pore. And all the murmur of 

Thy sounding pines, thy trembling, sighing leaves, 

Thrills every nerve with sudden joy. Thy breath 

Steals soft o'er cheek, and brow, and lip, so full 

Of fragrance, bringing back my childhood's days, 

That I forget the weary midnight past. 

And dream I am a child again. Thy voice. 

Thy touch, thy power win back to life once more. 

I shall not die. 

Teach me, sublime old mount. 
To stand like thee, defying clouds and storms. 
And wrap the snow-white mantle of a calm 
And holy resignation round my soul, 
When sorrow's dreary winter-time shall come ! 
And when 'tis past, like thee reclothe myself 
In life's fresh verdure, till the hour sliall come 
To be reclothed in Higher Worlds, in robes 
That young immortals wear, to lose their light 
No more forever. 

Plymouth, May 24, 1862. 



EAELY POEMS 



EARLY poems; 



THE DYING WARRIOR. 

His gallant form is lying on 

The cold and blood-stained ground, 
While thunders of the battle-field 

Are raging loud around. 
His helmet with its waving plume 

Is lying by his side, 
And from his heart the warm life-blood 

Is flowing like a tide. 

His blood-stained sword that's been his friend 

In many a well-fought field, 
Has fallen from his nerveless hand, 

Unable now to wield. 
The hue of death is on his cheeky 

And in his bloodshot eye, 
He feels the death-chill on his brow. 

And knows that he must die. 

" Oh- raise my languid form," he says, 

" And let me see once more 
The charge of my own legions brave, 

As on the foe they pour. 

* Mostly composed during sickness. 

247 



248 EARL T POEMS. 

Go, go to them, and tell them 

'Tis my last request, my all, 
To onward press to victory. 

And avenge their leader's fall ! " 

They raised him from the cold, damp ground,- 

His faithful followers there, — 
And wiped the clotted blood from out 

His dark and matted hair. 
He glanced one moment on the fight — 

The spirit fires him now — 
" Oh, give me once my steed," he says, 

" My helmet on my brow, 

" And I will lead my men once more 

To victory, or to death ! " — 
That moment with his life-blood passed 

His last, his latest breath. 
But victory crowned his banners bright. 

His last high wish was granted. 
That wish for which his blood was spilt. 

For which his soul had panted. 



THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 

To the wanderer give one welcome 
Back, back to his sunny home ; 

For far away 'mong strangers, 
Long, long has been his roam. 



EARLY POEMS. 249 

He has missed the pleasant fireside, 

The happy household band, 
And now he comes once more beneath 

His father's roof to stand. 

He comes, his heart grown weary 

With wand'ring far away, 
With trials that beset him 

Upon his toilsome way. 
He comes once more to visit 

His early boyhood's home, 
And once again to listen 

To soft affection's tone. 

But where are they — the loved ones, 

For which his spirit craves ? 
Oh, some are scattered far away. 

And some sleep in their graves. 
No mother's voice shall greet him, 

No sister's tender tone, 
The green grass waves above them, 

And he h all alone. 

He seeks his home in childhood, 

Which once was full of glee. 
Where he had knelt in guileless prayer, 

Low at his mother's knee. 
But gloomy and deserted 

Are those decaying walls. 
And silent are its places, — 

Alas 1 the lonely halls. 



250 EARL Y POEMS. 

The silent room he enters, 

But all is sadly lone ; 
No face familiar greets him, 

No joyous, ringing tone. 
The echo of his footsteps 

Alone the silence breaks, 
Save when the sighing breezes 

A mournful requiem makes. 

His shadow on the hearthstone 

Is all that's resting there, — 
Ah, no ! there's one still deeper, 

'Tis gloomy, dark despair. 
Gone is the sound of laughter, 

Of happy, careless mirth. 
He stands in silent anguish 

Upon the lonely hearth. 

A withering blight comes o'er him, 

He feels that he is now, 
" Upon the old ancestral tree 

The last leaf on the bough." 
Well might he say, heart-broken. 

In sorrow's deepest tone, 
" The hearth, the hearth is desolate, 

The bright fire quenched and gone. 



EARL T POEMS. 251 



THE DAYS OF OLD. 

Oh, the days of Old, the bright days of Old ! 

I love the tales that about them are told : 

I could sit for hours o'er the author's page. 

Where are spread bright gems of the by-gone age ; — 

Of the time when the Normans crossed the main, 
O'er the English Isles in their might to reign, 
When the Saxons bold held the regal sway. 
Till, pressed by hosts, they were forced to give way. 

Again, of the knights in the days of old, 
With their armor bright and their chargers bold, 
Who fought for their homes on many a day. 
Or tried their lance in the tourney gay ; 

Or when, with their zeal in the Holy War, 
They went from their homes to a country far. 
To fight for their faith and the Holy Land, 
In a noble, brave, and warlike band. 

How I love to read of bold Robin Hood, 
Who dwelt in the shade of merry Sherwood, 
With his outlaw band dressed in Lincoln Green, 
With their arrows sharp and their hardy mien. 

There they lay in wait as the traveller passed, 
And summoned their train with the bugle's blast. 
Or feasted and sung in their mirth and ease, 
'Neath the green, hanging boughs of the forest trees. 



252 EAELY POEMS. 

And the tales of Greece, in its ancient times, 
And the men that peopled its sunny climes 
In its infant state? or its lofty height, 
In its feeble strength, and its towering might. 

There's many a deed of the Spartan told, 
Of the fearless soldier and matron bold. 
Ere the nation wasted its life in ease. 
In the reign of luxurious Pericles. 

There's many a hero whose cherished name 
Shall be in all ages a wreath of fame ; 
There's many a poet whose song divine, 
Shall be echoed fore'er from clime to clime, 

That once lived in Greece in its palmy day, 
When o'er arts and science it held the sway. 
Ere the hand of Time had its ruin hurled 
O'er the haughty pride of the Grecian world. 

And Italy ! over that sunny clime 
Strong spells are cast by the olden time. 
From Venetian isles to Rome's high towers. 
Through her hills and vales, and her myrtle bowers. 

And now, though her greatness has passed away. 
And Rome, its proud mistress, in ruin lay. 
The fame of her sons burns bright in song. 
Their names are immortal in virtue or wrong. 

And over all lands is a romance cast 
By the deeds and words of times Ipng past ; 
From the Nile's proud flood to old Scotia's height, 
And our own broad Land has its deeds of might. 



EARLY P OEMS. 253 



DARK HOURS. 

Fm weary of this dull, cold earth, 

So full of pam and woe ; — 
Nought save a dreary weight of care 

Ere greets me as I go. 

My path grows dark on every side ; 

No ray of light is there, 
Save Hope's pale glimmering light that scarce 

Can save me from despair. 

Along the daily path of some, 

The gifts of Fortune free 
Lie scattered, like the pearly dew 

On blossom, leaf, and tree. 

But mine winds through a tangled way, 

A dark and dreary wild. 
Of hope deferred, of sickening cares, 

Where fortune never smiles. 

I may not join the festive mirth 
Of the bright and joyous throng, 

Where beauty, wit, and gladness, reign, 
And the magic tone of song. 

I may not range the valleys wide 

To cull the fairest flowers. 
Or while some 'leisure hour away 

Beneath the forest bowers. 



254 EARLY POEMS. 

I may not climb the rocky steep, 

At twilight's hour so still, 
There sit and let wild fancy stray 

Far onward at its will. 

But I. must pass long hours of gloom, 

When all around is bright, 
For o'er my form Disease has lain 

Its withering, sickening blight. 

Yet I could bear my dreary lot. 

With scarce one murmuring thought, 

Might I but drink at Science's fount 
A deep, soul-filling draught ; 

Might I but read the thrilling page 

Of ancient, mystic lore. 
And learn the many deeds of those 

Who lived in days of yore ; 

Or clothe the bright and glowing thought 
With deep and burning words. 

That make the heart with rapture thrill 
Whene'er the toiue is heard. 



EARLT POEMS. 255 



MUSINGS. 

The sunlight falls across the room, 

This bright and glorious day, 
And snowy fields like crystal shin© 

Beneath its dazzling ray. 
The hanging ice from every tree 

Reflects the rainbow's hue, 
The arching vault of heaven has caught 

A deeper, darker blue. 

I hear the merry sleigh-bells chime ; 

The laugh of passers-by 
Falls coldly on my weary ear, 

And dims my aching eye. 
I cannot bear the sounds of mirth, 

'Tis mockery in my ears ; 
And joyous smiles wake bitterness 

That I must quench in tears. 

For there's no pulse within my heart 

At joyous tones to thrill. 
But throbs of agony instead, 

I vainly try to still. 
A crushing weight of misery 

Is on my spirit laid, 
And 'neath its shade of bitterness 

Hope's light must darkly fade. 



256 EARLY POEMS. 

God ! has not my lot from youth 

Been hard enough to bear, 
That this last stroke — the worst of all 

Is added to my share ? 
Had I not known enough of grief, 

E'en in my happiest hour, 
Enough of all the storms that fate 

Upon my head might shower ? 

From childhood's hour have I not felt 

That life is cold and drear. 
With nought to me save bitterness, 

And trouble, doubt, and fear ? 
Had I not drank of poverty 

Full many, a bitter cup. 
And often as I drank the dregs 

Again it was filled up ? 

And now a deeper, darker shade 

Is o'er my spirit cast 
By wan disease ; that bows my form. 

Oh, is not this the last ? 
Oh, for a place where I may lay 

My weary, aching head. 
Oh, for one hour of peaceful rest, 

E'en though 'twere with the dead ! 



EARLY POEMS. 257 



THE SHIP. 

A GALLANT Ship lias left the strand, and cleaves the 

foamhig deep, 
And onward like a thing of life her course undaunted 

keeps, 
She's freighted with a priceless load of many happy 

hearts. 
And some, filled with wild agony, compelled from 

friends to part. 

There's some upon her deck who love to trust the 

treacherous tide ; 
And some, to view Earth's thousand scenes, her hills 

and valleys wide. 
To gaze upon her far-famed towers, her high and lofty 

domes. 
And feast the mind with lovely things, have left their 
^ sunny homes. 

And some, long exiles from their homes in their loved 

native land. 
Till every lock is silvered o'er by Time's relentless 

hand, 
Turn once again to view the hills and plains of that 

dear spot 
That through their wanderings o'er the earth has never 

been forgot. 

17 



258 EARLY POEMS. 

And some, to win the flush of health back to their pal- 
lid cheek, 

Have bade their homes and friends farewell with an- 
guish none might speak ; 

For who could tell if those loved forms might fill a 
lonely grave, 

Or, far more sad than aught beside, be buried 'neath 
the wave ! 

Ah, who can tell the anxious eyes that watch them from 

the shore. 
Or know the dark forebodings sad that they should 

meet no more. 
Or guess each throb of anguish wild when lowering 

tempests rise, ^ 

And howling winds with dirge-like blast sweep through 

the darkening skies ? 

The sky is calm, the breezes light, the Ship speeds o'er 

the main. 
Bearing her load of human hearts, — will she return 

again ? 
Though now awhile the sky is fair, and wind and tem- 

■ pests sleep. 
They, e'er to-morrow's dawn, may rise, and slu-oud her 

in the deep. 

And all the wealth of joyous hearts that with high rap- 
ture beat, 

To view once more their native land, and friends and 
kindred meet. 



EARLY POEMS. 259 

May all be hushed and coldly still beneath the dashing 

wave, 
Where none may know their lonely bed, or weep above 

their grave. 

The friends who loved them fondly well, may never 

know their fate? 
But by their fireside lone and sad through long dark 

hours may wait, 
To greet the loved one's form once more, the well 

known voice to hear, 
To welcome their return with smiles, long hoped with 

prayers and tears. 



A VOICE F^IOM FRANCE, 1848. 

There's a rushing sound like a mighty wind 

In Paris' crowded street. 
There's a murmur like the ocean's roar, 

And the sound of many feet. 

Down, down with the King ! bursts forth from the 
throng ; 

Let him min^^le in the dust ; 
From the princely halls of the Tuileries 

Let the throne be rudely thrust ! 



260 EARLT P0E3IS. 

Let the symbols dark of a king's proud reign, 

No more be seen in our land ; 
Let us rise, and free ourselves from the scourge 

Of a tyrant's bloody hand ! 

Shall we tremble still at a king's stern frown, 

And like cowards turn and flee, 
When with efforts brave, and a dauntless heart, 

We might all as well be free ? 

Let us raise the flag, the tri-colored flag, 

That has oft to victory led. 
When our countrymen fought at Napoleon's side, 

And their blood was freely shed. 

And teach the broad world that we will be free, 

That the victory shall be ours ; 
Although no Napoleon wins the fight, 

We've a brighter, better power. 

For the God of truth and liberty now 

Will guide us on by his might. 
Till the land shall hold no slave to base power, 

But all have a freeman's right. 

Then let us arise, and burst the chains 
That were forged by a tyrant's hand ; 

Let us plant the Tree of Liberty upw, 
That forevermore shall stand. 



EARLY POEMS. 261 



THOUGHTS ON LEAVING HOME, 

Must I now leave thee, thou home 
Of my childhood's mirth ? 

Must I bid a farewell 
To my father's hearth ? 

Must I leave all the friends 
That I've treasured here, 

And the beautiful scenes 
That to me are dear ? 

Yes, yes, I must leave ye,— 
Each bright sunny glade, 

Each beautiful prospect 
In sui^Jght and shade. 

I must go from my home 

To a stranger land, 
I must sever the chord 

Of the household band. 

I shall then no more know 

A mother's fond prayer, 
The love of a sister. 

Or a brother's care. 

In the home of a stranger 

My lot is now cast ; — 
Is it strange that I grieve 

For joys that are past ? 



262 EARLY POEMS. 

The grief of a moment 
Is passing away, 

For much as I love home, 
Yet I would not stay. 

The far-off world calls me, 
Li visions so bright, 

When imagination 
Takes its far flight, — 

That I must e'en leave thee. 
In strange lands to dwell : 

So all that I love here. 
Farewell ! farewell ! 



THE MOUENER. 

The birds are singing sweetly 

Upon the maple bough ; 
The fragrant breath of summer 

Is floating round me now. 

The earth is decked with flowers. 
The groves are green and bright ; 

These old familiar places 
Are filled with joy and light. 



EARLY POEMS. • 263 

But all to me is darkness, 

To me is filled with gloom ; 
For the loved, the loved are sleeping, 

Cold in the silent tomb. 

The birds' glad song but mocks me ; 

I cannot bear the tone ; 
Amid this mirth and gladness 

I feel alone, alone. 

The world is dark and dreary, 

To me its light is fled ; 
And every sight and sound to me 

Speaks only of the dead. 



DISEASE. 



I SIT me down with troubled thoughts and wildly 

aching head, 
I'm lonely, sad, dispirited, hope seems forever fled ; 
My mind is all one chaos dark of visions wild and 

stra^nge. 
That one by one with startling force before me seem 

to range. 
The hand of grief with leaden weight is pressing on my 

brow, 
And 'neath its weight of heaviness my stricken form 

must bow ; 



264 EARLT POEMS. 

All things that meet my saddened gaze a gloomy 

aspect wear, 
And life a weary, weary way, almost too hard to bear. 

Earth's false, deceitful charms that shone in fancy's 

mirror bright, 
Are withered now, and seem but dust and ashes iu n. / 

siglit ; 
Joys faded pass in long array before my spirit's eye, 
And fain I'd seek some lonely place, and lay me down 

and die. 
Why am I left to drag out life in woe, and care, and 

pain, 
Bewailing hours of happiness that ne'er may come 

again ; 
Still grieving for the health once mine, so early, sadly 

lost ; 
My youthful days chilled with disease's cold, withering, 

blighting blast ? 

And must I ever thus remain, must I thus linger so, 

Through long, long years (perhaps through life) , with 
all this weight of woe ? 

Oh, must I move in sadness 'mid the busy, bustling 
throng. 

And feel my weakness every hour when I would fain 
be strong ? 

My soul is struggling hard within its earthly prison- 
cell. 

And burning thoughts that none may speak with wild- 
est passion swell ; 



EAJtLT POEMS. 265 

And now I feel the chords that bind my spirit to this 

clay, 
And chain its freedom, when it fain would rise and 

soar away. 

What's left me now but agony and soul-subduing grief? 

Which way I turn, where'er I look, naught gives my 
soul relief ; 

I still must linger on through life, in weariness and 
woe, 

A stranger to the joys of health, a prisoner here below. 

But hush, my heart, thy wild regrets ! thy vain repin- 
ing still ! 

And learn to bow thyself beneath a higher, liolier Will ; 

Arouse thy better thoughts that long beneath despair 
have slept. 

And burst the bonds that bind thee back to joys so 
wildly wept. 

Learn to endure thy bitter lot without one murmuring 
•sigh. 

Learn to submit to One All- Wise who rules both earth 
and sky, 

Who giveth,in his mercy, joy and grief to all beneath 
the sun, 

Wlio doeth all things well, and guides and guards each 
suffering one. 

I will arise, and cast aside the dark and burning 
thoughts. 

With which my fevered brain has been so wildly, mad- 
ly fraught. 



266 . EARLY POEMS. 

And nerve my spirit up to meet the worst that life can 

give, 
To calmly bear my weary lot with firmness while I live. 



TO A BUNCH OF VIOLETS IN MY 
SICK ROOM. 

Bright flowers of the Spring-time 1 

I see ye once more, 
With thy beauty as peerless 

As ever before. 

O'er the reign of stern Winter 

Bright Spring has the sway, 
She has broken the ice-chains 

That bound thee, away. 

And my heart feels more joyful 

To gaze on thee now, 
Though the hand of pale sickness 

Is laid on my brow. 

Oh, I cannot but love thee, 

Bright, beautiful flowers ! 
For thou bring' st me bright visions 

Of sweet, sunny hours ; — 



EARLY POEMS. 267 

Of the hours when I rambled 

Among the green bowers, 
Where thy blossoms lay hidden 

By green leaves and flowers. 

Oh, ye seem like an old friend, 

Li beauty and power. 
That clings only closer 

In sorrow's dark hour ! 



THEY BID ME NERVE MY DROOPING 
SOUL. 

They bid me nerve my drooping soul 

To bear my weary lot. 
As though the ills of life could be 

So easily forgot. 

They bid me turn my weary eyes 

Life's brightest side to see ; 
As if the rays thus cast on some, 

Would ever beam on me. 

They tell me brighter days will come. 

That Health will yet be mine ; 
They bid me still my aching thoughts, 

And cease thus to repine. 



268 EARLY POEMS. 

As tliouo;li 'twere not a harder task 
To still my throbbing heart, 

Than 'tis, for them to coldly say, 
" Bear well thy bitter part." 

As if I e'er could fondly hope 

My lost health to regain. 
When I have wished and fondly hoped 

For years, and found it vain. 

I could have borne a father's fall 
From honor, truth, and fame. 

And heard the word of drunkard placed 
With his once honored name ; 

Although it is enough, methiijis. 
The stoutest heart to break. 

And from the patli of life around 
The brightest flowers to shake ; 

And Poverty's cold, chilling blast 

Unshrinking I could bear, 
Although the world turns coldly from 

The child of want and care ; 

But when to these unnumbered ills 

Is added wan Disease, 
That palsies all the warm life-blood, 

And bids the current cease, 



EARLY POEMS. 269 

Then hope casts but a sick'ning ray 

To guide me as I go, 
And hfe seems filled with nau2;ht to me, 

• O 7 

Save pain and want and woe ; — 

To watch the long, long weary days 

Drag slowly, sadly by. 
And know that each returning sun 

Will rise in majesty, 

And mock me with its gorgeous rays 

When I am filled with gloom. 
And shed its beams in mockery 

Within my darkened room ; 

To hear the birds with joyous tone 

Pour forth their gladsome song. 
And upward wdng their flight in air, 

So joyous all day long ; 

And feel the yearning in my soul 

To be as free as they, 
And know my hopes are fettered by 

This feeble, dying clay. 

I cannot hush the throbbing wild 

That swells through every vein, 
When memory points to happy days 

That ne'er may come again. 



270 EARLY POEMS. 

They think that I can cast aside 
Such vain and wild regrets, ' 

Perhaps I ought, — yet how caij I, 
With such a dreary lot ? 



SING TO ME. 

Sing to me some strain enlivening, 

For I am sad to-night ! 
Oh, sing me something seeming 

To speak of hope and light ! 

For feelings strange and withering 
Have o'er my spirit fell. 

And Memory stern is working 
Its dark and fearful spell. 

Oh, thousand thoughts of sadness 
Are stealing through my mind, 

And round my crowded vision 
Their darksome fibres wind. 

I think of earth's false pleasures, 

And all its bitter woe. 
Till my mind is past controlling, 

And I almost wish to go 



EARLY POEMS. ^ 271 

" Where the wicked cea?e from troubling, 
And the weary are at rest ; " ♦ 

lu that home that is appointed, 
With all the good and blest. 

Then sing me something cheermg ; 

And T will try to cast 
Aside the bitter feelings 

Of the dark and gloomy Past. 



TO MY SISTER ON HER EiaHTEENTlI 
BIRTHDAY. 

Sister, our life is but a dream. 

And we are hastening down the stream 

That glides so fast ; * 
Just eighteen years have passed away 
Since thou beheld the light of day, — 

How soon it past ! 

How short the time now seems to me 
Since we sat down beneath the trees. 

Beneath the shade ; 
Or sported on the grass so green, 
Or through the fields with joyous mien. 

We gaily strayed. 



272 ^^ EARLY POEMS. 



When we would cull the fairest flowers 
That grew among the mossy bowers, 

In early spring ; 
And list to hear the wild bird's song, 
As through the air it swept along, 

A joyous thing. 

And when the summer came at last. 
And all the berries ripened fast 

Beneath the sun : 
Then, with our baskets in our hand. 
To gather them, — a happy band, — 

We swiftly run. 

And when we'd picked a goodly share 
Of all that were most nice and fair, 

We never stayed ; 
But hastened home with longing eye. 
To gaze upon the strawberry-pie 

That mother made. 

I well remember how we dressed 
Our dolls up in their very best. 

To make them show ; 
And William then would plague and tease, 
And never give us any ease, 

Or peace, you know. 

And when we must to school away, 
We almost wished at home to stay, 
To tend them well ; 



EARLY POEMS. 273 

But when once there, we soon forgot 
Their wants, in learning in that spot, 
To read and spell. 

And when the winter came with snow 
And ice, — when all the boys could go, 

And slide so smart ; 
While you stood back with timid fear, 
I always thought the " coast was clear," 

And took a part. 

And then, sometimes, we'd have a slide 
Upon the sled that swiftly glides 

Adown the hill ; 
With girls and boys in merry play, 
When we could ever steal away 

'Gainst mother's will. 

But childhood's hours have passed away. 
And with them all our merry play, 

And dreams of bliss ; 
For after years bring pain and care. 
And we must learn such things to bear 

In a world like this. 

This life at best is full of woe. 

As all who live too soon must know, 

With bitter fears ; 
For all our hopes are but as dust. 
And all their sweetest visions must 

Be quenched in tears. 

18 



•274 EARLY POEMS. 

For Hope smiles only to deceive ; 
And yet we still that smile believe 

When all is fair ; 
But when affliction's hour draws nigh, 
Our happy thoughts are fettered by 

A dark despair. 

I think we both so soon have quaffed 
From life's full cup a bitter draught 

Of pain and care ; 
And yet perhaps 'tis but a drop 
Compared to all within the cup, 

To be our share. 

Yet sometimes 'mid the gathering night, 
There gushes forth a ray of light 

To guide our way ; 
That makes all things in gladness bloom, 
Once shrouded by the darkest gloom. 

And bids us stay. 

And earth seems then a region blest, 
Where many souls may seek for rest, 

And find at last. 
But ah, 'tis but a sunbeam stray 
That through the clouds had found its way ;■ 

It soon is past. 

'Tis thus that life appears to me, 
Yet brighter it may seem to thee 
Than to my eyes ; 



EARLY POEMS, 275 

May such glad feelings never fade, 
And may no deeper, darker shade 
E'er dim thy skies. 

And thon hast passed from childhood now. 
For eighteen years have swept thy brow 

With flying wing ; 
And thou must bear life's hopes and fears. 
For in thy heart are tvomarCs tears^ — 

A hidden spring. 

Let not the fount be lightly stirred 

By ivinning smiles^ and love's soft words 

In tender tone ; 
" Who learns to love, but learns to weep, 
And tearful, nightly vigils keep," 

In sorrow lone. 

Shun dark temptation's devious way, 
Encompassed round by fancy's gay 

And treacherous net ; 
And let each false, alluring charm. 
Spread forth to lure thee on to harm. 

Be firmly met. 

And if thy heart sometimes will fail, 
And shrink beneath the passing gale 

That round thee sweeps ; 
Think of a home beyond the grave, 
Of Him who will thy spirit save, 

And ever keep. 



276 EARLY POEMS. 



LAMENT OF THE JEWISH CAPTIVES. 

By Babylon's lone river, far in a stranger's land, 
Were gathered all together our sad and broken band ; 
And there with hearts fast breaking,-while all around us 

slept, 
Upon their banks by moonlight we sat us down and 

wept. 
We wept for Zion fallen from all her greatness now, 
W^hile we poor, lonely captives to ser\dtude must bow ; 
We wept to think how strangers now dwelt within her 

walls. 
And held their mirth and pastime in our deserted halls. 

We wept, and oh ! how vainly, to think we never 

there. 
Within our holy temple, might meet again in prayer, 
Where we had met to worship our own and fathers'. 

God, 
For now far off we're scattered, beneath his chastening 

rod. 
Our harps upoji the willows we had in silence hung, 
For now their strings were tuneless, and palsied were 

our tongues ; 
And oft the eve's breeze sweeping among the jarring 

strings. 
To our lone ear desponding, a mournful cadence brings. 

And they that bound us captive in servitude so long, 
With mocking tone and gestures required of us a song, 



EARL T POEMS. 277 

Saying, " Sing us one of Zion, — the long-remembered 

lays, 
When ye were met to worship your God with prayer 

and praise." 
But never to those strangers shall songs like ours be 

sung, 
No ! rather let each harp-string forever be unstrung, 
No ! rather let the willows their mournful burden 

bear, — 
Yet still reUef is left us — 'tis fervent, h^art-felt prayer ! 



ADDRESS OF HENHY THE FOURTH 
TO HIS ARMY. 

" Soldiers of Navarre and i-eforraed France! " cried he, waving aloft his 
lance, "do you want a banner to fight under? Then follow my white 
plume, and turn not your horses' heads till you see. it laid in the dust." 

Henry Quatre. 

Yes, on to the rescue, soldiers all ! 
Nor fear ye the fate of those that fall. 
Yes, on to regain your Ijanner proud. 
And win ye a name, or find a shroud ! 

No time is this for a craven heart, 
No time to shirk from a soldier's part ! 
Would a banner cheer your spirits on. 
To fight in a cause that must be won ? 



278 EARL T POEMS. 

Then behold my plume that is waving high ! 
Follow this, nor think ye once to fly, 
Nor swerve from your post until ye must, 
Till this plume and head are laid in dust ! 

Thus he spake : then plunged in thickest fight, 
While his army, now restrained from flight, 
With their leader's war-cry hurried on, 
To charge the 'ranks of the foe again. 

They followed that plume where the battle raged, 
And with hearts of steel the combat waged, 
Nor turned their backs till the foe were crushed, 
And their banner raised from out the dust. 



TO ONE WHO CALLED ME UNGRATE 
FUL. 

I'm not ungrateful, though I seem 

To thee so base and weak ; 
I'm not ungrateful — ne'er again 

To me such dar*k words speak. 

Think you that I remember not 

The kindness done to me ? 
Think you I have forgotten all 

My gratitude to thee ? 



EARLY POEMS. 279 

What though I seem unheeding all 

The blessings thou dost shower, 
To all thy cheering words and deeds 

In dark affliction's hour : 



What though my lips speak not the thanks 

That I have owed thee long ; 
Yet not the less around my heart 

Do grateful feelings throng. 

For every kindly word and deed, 

For all thy tender care. 
For happiness to thee and thine, 

I breathe a fervent prayer. 

A friend in need thou proved to me, 
When storm-clouds swept the sky. 

When wan disease was o'er me laid. 
And dark affliction nigh. 

For this my heart will thank thee, though 

My lips are silent still, 
For this will endless gratitude 

To thee, my spirit fill. 

And should you ever think me strange, 

And cold, and most unkind. 
Yet deeper still those thoughts shall burn. 

Still deeper in my mind. 



280 EARLY POEMS. 

And if I never may repay 
The bounties thou hast given, 

Yet still rewarded thou shalt be, — 
'Tis treasured up in Heaven ! 



DESPAIR. 

I'll hope no more ; — 'tis all in vain I 

For health can ne'er be mine again : 

I've hoped and prayed through weary years, 

I've craved the boon with bitter tears ; 

But 'tis in vain, — 'tis all in vain, — 

It never can be mine again. 

I'll think no more of joyous hours. 
No more of life's bright sunny flowers ; 
For all that made my joy is fled, 
And all life's flowers are torn and dead : 
I've struggled on through pain and care. 
But now I yield to dark Despair. 

Yet I had hoped that life would be 
A scene of active joy to me, — 
I wished to do, to act, to give, 
I wished for more than just to live : 
It may not be ; and I must still 
My aching heart to do His will. 



EARLY POEMS. 281 

And now 'tis past ! and I am left 

Of all life's brightest joys bereft ; 

My spirit crushed, that fain would rise 

With eagle pinion to the skies. 

The world is dark ! to hope were vain, 

For health can ne'er be mine aa-ain. 



"SUFFER, YET BE STRONG." 

Yes, suffer if thou must ! but oh, be strong, 
Although thy trials may be stern and long. 
And filled with sorrows dark, that make the heart 
Almost too sad to bear its bitter part. 
What though thy path is Poverty's lone way 
Uncheered by naught save hope's pale, dying ray? 
Yet let thy heart be strong ; press on in might ; — 
Bright days will come, if thou but doest right. 

Has wan Disease her blight upon thee laid, 

And caused the bright light from thine eye to lade ? 

Does health with taunting mien thy sad prayers spurn, 

Still mocking with a vain hope of return ? 

Yet still hope on ; despair not even then ; 

For time may bring thee back tliy strength again ; 

And patient suffering through the weary hours. 

May give thy soul far better thoughts and powers. 

Have friends turned coldly from thy path aside, — 
Those whom tliou ever thought the true, the tried, — 



282 EARL T POEMS. 

And left thee in affliction's stern, cold hour, 
To meet alone the dark storm-clouds that lower ? 
Let not thy heart be sad for friends so frail, 
But nerve thyself to meet the passing gale ; 
Bow thy form meekly 'neatli the chastening rod, 
And learn to put thy trust in none but God. 

Have those whose presence rendered bright thy way — 
Too pure, too meek, in this cold world to stay — 
Been called from earth, the chain of bondage riven ? 
Grieve not, but think thou'lt meet them all in Heaven ; 
And know that round thee still the loved ones come, 
To render bright the darkness of thy home. 
Yes, God's own love is round thee every hour ; 
Lean strong and fearless on His mighty power ! 



EECOVERY FKOM SICKNESS 

My heart was almost breaking 
Li those dark hours of pain. 

But now once more I'm waking 
To light and hope again. 

The hours were dark and lonely 

Until thou came at last ; 
But now I know I only 

Should thank thee for the past. 



EARLY POEMS. 

Oh, when I lay enshrouded 
In darkness and despah^ 

And hope's bright star was clouded, 
Then thou wert with me there. 

But ah, amid my anguish, 
I knew not thou Avert nigh ; 

My doom was then to languish, 
Methought alone to die. 

But glorious light is breaking 
Within my prison's gloom. 

And now new flowers are waking — 
New flowers of fadeless bloom. 

To thee, God, I'm raising 
An anthem glad and free, 

And every hour I'm praising, 
God, I'm praising Thee ! 



283 



-ONLY FOR ONE." 

SUGGESTED BY THE REMARK OF A FRIEND. 

At times my soul beneath the power 
Of some strange spell is stirred. 

As though an Angel sang to me. 
And I that song had heard ; 



284 EARLY POEMS. 

As though some power within my soul 
Burst forth like morning sun, 

And thrilled to music every chord — 
I only sing for one. 

And sometinjes, when my spirit-lyre 

Is swept in every string, 
And glows with inspiration's fire, 

As touched by angel's wing, 
I fain would paint in glowing verse. 

As others oft have done, 
And give expression to my thought, 

Yet only write for one. 

I gaze far down the aisles of life. 

As in some chapel dim, 
And, note the pilgrim's morning prayer j 

Or list his evening hymn ; 
And whether in the morning hour, 

Or when the day is done, 
I watch the passers ^ome and go. 

Yet only look for one. 

Yet through that one, as through a glass. 

The world I seem to see. 
And like an image stands that one 

Of all the world to me ; 
And through that inspiration given. 

As through some morning sun, 
I sing, and write, and act for all, 

Best when it seems for one. 



EARLY POEMS. 285 



LINES WRITTEN IN A SCHOOL-ROOM. 

The school-room is deserted now, 

The happy children gone, 
And silence rests upon the spot 

So strangely, sadly lone. 

There's loneliness within the walls ; 

I miss the little feet 
That echoed here a moment since, 

And filled each vacant seat. 

Gone is each voice of happiness. 

And childhood's joyous tone, 
And with my sad and lonely thoughts 

Once more I'm left alone. 

But now, methinks, the air seems filled 

With spirits of the past, — 
A strange, sweet spell is in the air, 

And all around me cast. 

The echoes of the youthful tones 

That rung here long ago. 
Steal o'er me like the far-off strain 

Of music soft and low. 

A fairy throng steal softly back 

To their accustomed place. 
And every vacant seat is filled 

With an unfamiliar face. 



286 EARLY POEMS. 

A bright and joyous band are they ; 

The same sweet smile is there, 
That often when within these walls 

Their features used to wear. 

And with them back they bring the light 

Of childhood's happy days, 
And round the room that lonely seemed 

They shed sweet, brightening rays. 

And o'er my soul the influence falls 
Like some soft ray of light, — 

All loneliness and gloom is past, 
All, all around seems bright. . 



SONGS FKOM SPIRIT LAND 



Melody, melody ! list and ye'll hear ! 

Angels are singing ; the loved ones are near ! 

Harmony, harmony ! songs of pure love 

Are floating to greet thee from Bright Ones above ! 

• 
Can ye not hear it ? Then listen again ! 
'TVould fill thee with rapture to catch the glad strain. 
Anthems, glad anthems, are rising to God ; 
Join in those anthems, loved, on this sod ! 



EARLY POEMS. 287 

Sweeter and sweeter that strain still shall grow, 
When mortals shall join us, — the loved ones below; 
Louder, still louder our paeans shall be, 
When Earth from her darkness shall rise and be free ! 

II. 

Burst forth in a song of praise, 

O Earth ! to God, your King ; 
The deepest tribute of your hearts 

To Him forever bring. 

He formed the earth, the sea, the air, 

He formed the spreading sky, 
And every star that nightly comes 

To cheer the gazing eye. 

And every little flower that grows 

In wild or desert place. 
Is but the index of His smile, 

A symbol of His grace. 

Time was when earth was not, or stars, 

Or planetary world. 
Or suns, or systems ; nought but God 

Wide through all space unfurled. 

He spake ; and worlds on worlds came forth, 

And took the place designed, 
And each is held in measured course 

By His directing mind. 



288 EARLY P OEMS. 



MORNING. 

See ! Aurora's crimson beam 
.Wakes to lighten all the world : 

See each tint in beauty gleam ; 

From his throne grim Night is hurled ! 

Now the sun with crown of light 

Ushers in the glorious Day ; 
Clouds that hid the face of night, 

Gleam like gold beneath his ray. 

Thus may Knowledge ever be 
Round our minds a halo bright ; 

Thus may we, delighted, see 

Wisdom's rays disperse the night. 



THE ANGEL'S VISIT. 



November winds were loud and high, 

The storm-clouds drifted through the sky, 

And, hid behind a frowning pile, 

The sun refused for man to smile. 

The earth had lost its sylvan sheen, 

The forest trees their robes of green, 

And tossed their naked branches high, 

As if for succor to the sky, 

In this their bitter trial day, — 

Their all of beauty passed away. . 

The giant mountains, late so green, 

Like rocky ramparts now were seen, 

And frowning down upon the vale. 

Seemed adding terror to the gale ; 

And over all, the murky clouds 

Closed, dark and gloomy like a shroud. 

And that strange, deep and mystic sound 

Which Autumn breathes through all around, - 

Her own sad dirge uj3on the day 

When all her children pass away, — 

Seemed strangely sad in that dark hour ; 

Now bursting forth with frenzied power, 

As if the smothered grief of years, 

Welle«l out in groans, and prayers, and tears 

19 289 



290 THE ANGEL'S VISIT. 

'Twas now a fitful, gasping sigh, 
Like one who struggled, but must die; 
And now a wild, unearthly groan, 
Like some poor sufferer's dying moan ; 
Then soft and low, a plaintive strain, 
That thrilled the heart with sudden pain, 
That told of suffering and of care. 
Of blighted hopes, of dark despair. 
So dark, so eerie was the tone, 
The heart grew desolate and lone. 

Within a vale where mountains high 
Stood up as pillars for the sky, 
And autumn's dirge went wailing on. 
As though it murmured, '' Gone, all gone," 
A young girl lay in darkened room. 
Chained by disease, — a living tomb ! 
And what to her was cloud or sky ? 
Such sights might never greet her eye. 
And what was coming day or night ? 
To her, alas, there was no light! 
What io her was Spring's bright morn? 
She could not see its flowery dawn. 
And what were Summer's glorious rs^s. 
Its long, its bright, sunshiny days ? 
Could Autumn's dirge e'er give her pain ? 
Sang not her heart a sadder strain ? 
And cheek and lip, and heart and eye. 
Gave but this prayer — ^' O/?,, God^ to die ! " 
And wonder not she breathed such prayer. 
And wonder not at her despair ; 



THE ANGEL'S VISIT. 

For, long and weary years she'd lain 
Upon her couch of torturing pain ; 
Such years as make the heart grow old, 
The fires of life burn dim and cold ; 
Such years as hush young life's rich thrill. 
And crush the heart, or make it still. 
There loas a time when, glad and gay. 
She speeded on her earthly way. 
And though the clouds were round her path, 
She heeded not their stormy wrath. 
But still hoped on, one ivish to gam,— 
Alas, alas, how wholly vain ! 
She cared not for the wealth of worlds 
For Fame's broad banner wide unfurled; 
But there was thirst her soul withm. 
The fount of Science, Truth, to wm. 
* She heard far off the dashing waves 
That this bright shrine forever lave ; 
She prayed the voices of the past 
Their mystic hght for her to cast ; 
She asked to feed the mind with lore, 
Such as the ancients had in store ; 
For Genius, Intellect, and Power, 
To be her bright, immortal dower ; 
To wander on as hand in hand 
With gifted minds, a radiant band. 
But tliat deep thirst might not be still. 
There came no power her soul to fill ; 
She only caught the dashing spray 
Of those bright waters far away,^ 
That only bathed her parching lip — 
The chaliced cup she might not sip. 



291 



292 THE ANGEL'S VISIT. 

Then came Disease with withering spell. 
And o'er her hopes its dark blight fell, 
And o'er her form ; and there she lay 
A suffering captive, day by day ; 
The same deep thirst within her soul, 
Whose maddened waves but wilder rolled. 
And there, as year by year passed on, 
Without one hope to lean upon, 
No voice to say, thou shalt again 
Come forth among the haunts of men, 
(For e'en the skilful could not cope, 
But whispered low, " There is no hope,") 
Her memory faded like a dream, 
From out the world, with passing gleam. 
She learned to know the weary lot 
Of those who live to be forgot ; 
Or but remembered still as one 
From whom the love of life had gone ; 
Who turned her face unto the wall. 
And listened only for her call ; 
Who bowed her head to meet her fate, 
And ivaited lonely at the Gate. 

What knew they of her wild despair ? 
What knew they of her ceaseless prayer ? 
Of all her struggles, still to gain 
Her health, her place in life again, 
That she might yet drink at the spring. 
Whose thrilling waves such rapture bring ? 
That she might live, not all in vain, 
But for the world some lasting gain. 



THE ANGEL'S VISIT. 293 

And then, when came the crushing blow, 

That she must still live on in woe, 

That health might never come again, 

That she must live, ay, ivorse than vain, 

To make no human pathway bright. 

But with her shadoiv cast a blight ; , 

And that for every breath she drew, 

A mother^s heart must bleed anew, 

And every comfort that might cheer. 

Was purchased by a mother's tear, 

And all her life was adding now 

But wrinkles to that mother's brow ; 

How prayed her heart still o'er and o'er. 

With agony unfelt before, 

Until, with every labored breath. 

Came welling forth, " Where art thou. Death ? " 

Thou comest to the glad and gay. 

Thou bearest them from earth away. 

And thou dost lay the mighty low. 

Till nations wail in bitter woe ; 

And yet thou passest coldly by. 

When all my prayer is. Let me die I 

And am I then so slight a thing. 

Thou deem'st me not worth conquering ; 

In pain and grief am I so low. 

Thou scorn' st to be to such a foe ? 

Or dost thou laugh at my despair, 

Exulting in my fruitless prayer. 

And, feeling that the hell I live 

Is greater than thy power can give, 

So leavest me, with a torturer's art, 

To suffer on with breaking heart, 



294 THE ANGEL'S VISIT. 

To triumph in thy fiendish glee, 
My tortured agony to see ; 
And coldly pass, in this my hour 
Of bitterest need of all thy power, — 
To leave me with my Cross of Fire, 
With every flame but rising higher. 
Upon the rack extended now. 
The Crown of Thorns upon my brow, — 
To aim thy dart where shrieks of fear 
Shall sound when'er thy step draws near, 
And wails of grief, and tears must flow, 
And mankind curse thee in their woe ? 

" Death ! thou tyrant, hated thing ! 

Thou art the conqueror of Kings. 

The maiden's cheek grows pale with fear, 

When thou dost whisper, ' I am here ! ' ' 

The lover's heart that wildly thrills. 

At touch of thine grows strangely still ; 

The victor of the conquering fight. 

Is but the victim of thy might ; 

And warriors brave that dare thy spell. 

Leave but this story — ' Here they fell.' 

No wonder all the world's thy foe, 

For thou hast laid their great ones low ; 

No wonder that they shrink in dread 

Upon tliy breast to lean their head ! 

Cold-hearted one 1 thou wilt not tell 

Where thou hast taken the loved to dwell. 

Whether to Heaven, or yet to Hell ; 

Or whether thou leav'st them in the grave, 

To slumber in oblivion's wave 



THE ANGEL'S VISIT. 295 

Forever. None but those who lie 

In Earth^s deep Hell, can pray to die ! " — 

Such was her fate. Thou wouldst not come 

To take her to thy mystic home. 

A greater tyrant reigned o'er her — 

Thou ivouldst not be its conqueror ; 

A darker fate than thou canst give ; 

Thy fiendish heart said, " Let her live ! " 

And in this hour of Autumn's gloom, 

When earth was shrouding for the tomb, 

And dirge-like music swept the blast, 

As mourning over blessings past. 

She lay in deep and cold despair, 

Too deep for tears, too dark for prayer. 

And hour by hour dragged slowly by, 

And still she lifted not her eye ; 

The storm grew loud, the thunders rolled. 

It waked no echo in her soul ; 

Cold, silent, prayerless in her gloom. 

Like corse just shrouded for the tomb. 

And then, as if some mighty spell 

Had touched her heart, a wondrous swell 

Of wild, impassioned, burning prayer 

Burst forth upon the midnight air ; 

A prayer in which the blight of years. 

The bitter, burmng, scalding tears. 

The blasted hopes, the burning thirst. 

Despair — when fate had done its worst, — 

All mingled, in heart-breaking wail 

More dirge-like than the passing gale ; 



296 THE ANGEL'S VISIT. 

And in its power went up to God, 

Through paths that once the Angels trod : 

'' 0, Mighty Father of us all, 

Canst thou not hear me when I call ? 

Have I not prayed in agony, 

Through weary years, God, to Thee, 

For life, for health, for strength once more. 

And e^ en for Deaths from out thy store ? 

Have I not vowed my life should be 

A consecration unto Thee ? 

That where Thy voice might call, I'd go. 

O'er land or sea, through weal or woe ? 

A martyr unto Truth I'd be. 

If Thou wouldst set thy captive free, 

And let me live an active life. 

E'en though through want, and woe, and strife ? 

Vain have I lived, ay, vjorse than vain ! 

Why art Thou mute, Great God, again ? 

Are there no Angels now in Heaven, 

That unto man are ever given 

To comfort, when the soul must weep 

Such '-' tears of blood," and vigils keep 

'^ Witliin the garden " of the soul, 

Where midnight thunders awful roll ? 

And are there none to " roll away 

The stone " from sepulchres to-day ? 

No angels bright amid this gloom, 

To enter now my living tomb. 

And touch my form, and bid me rise, 

And make this earth a paradise ? 

From living death to set me free, — 

A " Resurrection " unto Thee ? 



THE ANGEL'S VISIT. 297 

If such a boon thou e'er dost give, 
Look on me, pity, let me live ! 
No more with every heart-string riven ; 
Oh, give to me as thou hast given ! 
Deny me not, mysterious Heaven I 



Was it the rush of angels' wings ? 

Was it the song that seraphs sing ? 

For scarce had died that anguished prayei 

Upon the darkened midnight air, 

When, soft and low, a swoet refrain 

Gave ])ack the words, again, again, 

As if some presence filled the spot, 

'•'Deny me not, deny me not I " 

A glorious light filled all the place, ^ 

Its radiance shone o'er all her face. 

Gone, gone, was all her pall-like gloom, 

As if bright angels filled the room. 

A spell stole through her inmost soul, 

She felt its waves in beauty roll ; 

Gone, gone, was all her pain and care. 

She felt no thirst and no despair ; 

And strength through all her form was ^Iven - 

" Was she transported unto heaven ? 

Or had bright angels come to earth, 

To raise her to a higher birth ? " 

As if in answer to this thought. 

In melody these words she caught, — 

Like angel voices through the room, — 

''God heard thy prayer, ive come, ice come /" 



298 THE ANGEL'S VISIT. 

A wild, wild thought swept o'er her then, 

That she should wake to life again, 

That her deep prayers were heard in Heaven, 

That angels unto her were given, 

To cast away her veil of gloom, 

To lift her from her living tomb. 

Wiih one wild burst of sudden tears, — 

Like rain from heaven o'er all those years ^ — 

Her soul gushed forth in living love, 

In gratitude to Heaven above. 

Like rock when smitten by the rod, 

Was that young soul, when touched by God, 

And from that hour new strength was given 

By those bright messengers from Heaven. 

The life-blood, with a sudden start. 

Once more pulsated through the heart. 

And waked new life in every vein. 

Till that poor form revived again. 

Until, as day by day passed on. 

And week by week sped swiftly on, 

That maiden left her couch of pain, 

And stepped forth into life again. 

Again the sunshine met her eye, 

And those Green Mountains, grand and high ; 

Again she saw the forest trees 

Wave green and fragrant in the breeze ; 

Again beheld earth's carpet bright, 

As if just spread to meet her sight, 

All woven with its brightest flowers ; 

She heard the birds amid the bowers. 

That seemed to sing their sweetest strain. 

As if to welcome back again 



THE ANGEL'S VISIT. 299 

One who had loved their woodland song, 
And pined to hear it, oh, so long! 
And how felt she ? Like captive freed 
In some dark hour of sorest need. 
She gazed upon the sunny sky, 
She watched the streamlet flowing by, 
' She wandered in the greenwood shade. 
And rested in the shadowy glade ; 
Drank in the sunshine and the breeze, 
And rested 'neath the tall green trees, 
With such a gush of grateful love 
To that Great Father, God above. 

As bade her half forget her pain, ^ 

Ai'id make her " love to live " again. 

And round her still, in every hour. 

Was this same bright, angelic power 

(That woke her from her pain and woe), 

Attending still where she might go. 

It came in balmy sleep at night. 

At morning's hour it woke to light ; 

Was with her in the woodland bower. 

Gave brigliter hues to every flower ; 

The living presence ever nigh, 

Charmed earth and sea, and air and sky, 

Till every place her footsteps trod 

Seemed hallowed with the Present God. 

And stronger grew lier form each day, — 
All pain a;id languor swept away,— 
Until, like some neglected lute. 
With broken strings all sadly mute, 



300 THE ANGEL'S VISIT. 

That some kind baud has tuned again, 
And waked to old, familiar strain. 
Her heart vibrated ; and each string 
Seemed swept by angels' starry wings, 
And gave forth songs whose every tone 
. Was waked by angel hands alone. 
She spoke such words of heavenly truth 
And life, as fitted not her youth ; 
And taught of angels, God and Heaven, 
And said that not one tie was riven 
When loved ones, called away from earth, 
Awoke in Heaven to purer birth. 
But that they came again in love. 
To point the weary heart above. 
To heal the sick, to turn from sin. 
To nobler truths the soul to win. 
To save from pain, and woe, and care, 
To lift above all dark despair. 
To wipe away the mourner's tear. 
And unto all to speak of cheer. 
To light with hope each weary eye. 
And teach the soul it cannot die. 



Enrapt, like one inspired of old. 
Forth from her lips such teachings rolled. 
Till lost to self the voice would say, 
" 'Tis Angels speak to you to-day. 
This form has languished long in pain. 
But we have given it life again ; 
And we will work for suffering earth, 
And wake new flowers of life to birth, 



THE ANGEL' ^ VISIT. 301 

Till all shall know that our bright band 

With human souls walks hand in hand." — 

And mankind listened when she spoke, 

While light o'er all lier features broke, 

And marvelled much. " What is the power," 

They argued, " that in this dark hour 

Has brought her from her living tomb. 

Waked unto life, with sudden bloom ? 

And what has wreathed her face in light ? 

And what has given her voice such might ? 

Why do the words like torrents flow. 

And speak of Heaven to all below ? 

Why leaves she woman's lowly sphere, 

To speak where crowds these words can hear, 

When all the men of God but say. 

She doth blaspheme, — away, away ? 

And thoughtless worldlings scorn to hear 

A message from the brighter sphere. 

Or say our friends in heaven are blest ; 

Call them not back, but let them rest I 

" 'Tis strange, 'tis passing strange," they say, — 

" By ignis fatuus led away ! 

What spell is woven o'er her brain ? 

And yet ivhat poiver assuaged her pain ? " 

And some looked, listened, and believed. 

Rejoicing in the truth received ; 

And many a mourner wiped the tear. 

The loved one's voice from heaven to hear. 

And many a suffering form of pain. 

Arose to life and light again ; 

And many an erring one from sin. 

That voice from heaven reclaimed again. 



g02 THE ANGEL'S VISIT. 

And many passed it coldly by. 

And knew not that the loved were nigh, 

And said, " It is an evil thing 

To listen to the songs she sings ; 

Her words are full of error ; go 

Not in her path, it leads to woe ! " 

But still she swerved not from her path, 
She heeded not the world's dark wrath ; 
But where the voice said, go, she went. 
Upon her holy mission bent. 
Unshrinking in the stormy blast, 
Calm and serene she onward passed, 
To do the work the angels gave — 
Poor suffering ones of earth to save. 
And what to her the scoffing sneer ? 
Did not bright forms her pathway cheer ? 
And what was scandal's scorching tone ? 
She did not bide its blast alone. 
What though the thoughtless ones might say, 
The girl is mad ? She kept her way ; 
For, all the sneers and scorn of worlds. 
Anathemas upon her hurled, 
Were nothing' in the brimming cup 
That angel hands were filling up. 
! Gould she forget that Living Tomb ? 
That deep, wild agony and gloom ? 
Could she forget her wildest prayer — 
To truly live — no niatter ivhere — 
So that her life, not all in vain, 
Might homeward turn to -God again ? 



THE ANGEL'S VISIT. 303 

And will she waver now ? Though scorn 

May meet her gaze, and though the thorn 

May pierce her feet, and bind her head, 

While light for others'' paths she sheds ? 

While guardian angels ever near, 

Are speaking words of glorious cheer, 

And giving strength for every hour, 

Drawn from the Father's mighty power ? 

No, never ! Onward is her way — 

The path leads to eternal day ! 

'Tis only when she sees how s^nall 

Her power to raise when others fall, 

How weak she stands in sight of Heaven, 

With all the gifts that God has given, 

That she com falter. Only then. 

An hour, and she is strong again, 

Uplifted by her faith in laws 

That give effect to every cause ^ 

Proportioned to itself. Each thought, 

And word and act with love that's fraught. 

Each seed thus sown, at last must bloom. 

Surviving e'en the darkest tomb. 

Strong ? Yes, how strong ! Too slight a thing 

Is human scorn the heart to sting. 

When borne for Truth, and God, and Love, 

When guarded by his Hosts above ! 

Oh, may her soul be ever strong 
To triumph over pain and wrong ! 
No sin to dim the heavenly light 
That now illumes her pathway bright ; 



304 THE ANGEL'S VISIT. 

But ever listening to the strain 
That Angels sing again, again ; 
And ear as open to the cry 
That sorrow makes in passing by. 
With hand as ready to relieve, 
And even more., than to receive ; 
And soul out flowing in its love. 
To that bright host in Heaven above ; 
And unto God, the mighty Giver — 
In deeds of love, in high endeavor — 
Tlie souVs true offering forever ! 



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